The Usual Suspects

Dedication

For Reese

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Life is all about timing.

Once the homeroom bell rings at 8:15 a.m., there’ll be a five-minute lag before students are marched to the auditorium to gather for morning assembly. Nehemiah Caldwell and I get there before any administration types do. We slide under the curtain beneath the stage and crawl over to the stereo cart.

This is going to be epic.

“You got it?” Nehemiah asks.

I pat my pocket. “Yeah. You got what you need?”

“I’m like a Boy Scout up in this mug.” He untangles wires from a box with computer ports in it. He then begins to draw the cord, pulling the cart closer to us.

“Easy, easy . . .”

“If you think this is so easy, you come do this.”

“Shh! She might hear you.” I scoot over and help pull on the cord. We draw the cart until it’s pressed against the stage. The music teacher’s absent today; his mistake was announcing it in advance. Since he runs sound for morning assembly, he preset the mixing board so that all the person filling in for him had to do was hit the power button.

We have other plans.

“Can you reach the laptop?” Nehemiah asks.

“Let me make sure it’s clear.” I pop my head out. The new principal, Mrs. Fitzgerald, talks to a teacher at the far entrance, her back to us. I study the folks I’m going up against. Mrs. Fitzgerald has a swagger to her. A bit of a gangster vibe. She wanders the halls with a beaming smile, but she has a resting teacher face with her eyes narrow like unflinching lasers. Most kids fear crossing her. But I don’t.

I snatch the laptop and hope no one was paying attention.

“Got it,” I say.

“Hand me the flash drive.”

“Here you go.” I crouch back, giving the man space to work.

Nehemiah’s unaware that he sticks his tongue out like he’s about to dunk a basketball. Playing ball, playing video games, or him in front of a computer are the only times he gets his game face on. “All right, that should do it.”

“You sure?”

“You want to keep questioning me, or you wanna get ghost before we get caught?”

We scramble out the back way, popping up near the stairs on the far side of the stage. As we’re about to dip out, our teacher Mr. Blackmon rounds the corner.

“Fellas.” Mr. Blackmon nods, checking us out as he does so. “Where are you supposed to be?”