From Trash To Treasure: Masked Heiress

Three figures appeared at the end of the alley. Red laser sights cut through the darkness, scanning the ground where Braylon had just been lying.

Ivy Goff crumpled the paper into a tight ball. The red ink on the page was still vivid in her mind, a sea of Fs that she had carefully curated over the semester. She tossed the ball into the metal trash can near the school exit. It hit the rim with a hollow clang and fell in.

She pushed open the heavy double doors. The rain hit her instantly. It wasn't a drizzle. It was a deluge that soaked through her thin uniform shirt in seconds. She opened her black umbrella, but the wind threatened to turn it inside out.

Ivy walked toward the back of the gymnasium. It was a shortcut to the parking lot, a narrow alley lined with dumpsters and old equipment. The smell of wet asphalt usually dominated here, but tonight, something else cut through the petrichor.

Copper.

The metallic tang was thick in the humid air. Ivy stopped. She adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses, which were fogging up from the humidity. A flash of lightning illuminated the alley for a split second.

A man lay in the mud near the dumpster.

He was face down. A dark pool expanded beneath him, mixing with the rainwater running toward the drain. Ivy stepped closer, her sneakers squelching in the mud. She saw the handle of a knife protruding from his lower abdomen.

Braylon Lancaster lay there, his breathing shallow and ragged. His expensive suit was ruined, the fabric torn and stained. His fingers clawed at the wet pavement, scraping until the nails broke.

Ivy looked down at him. Her face remained blank.

He was a variable she hadn't accounted for. If she called the police, they would ask questions. They would want statements. Her name would be in a report. Her carefully constructed invisibility would crack.

She turned her heel.

She took one step away. Then two.

A hand shot out and clamped around her ankle.

The grip was bruising. It wasn't a plea for help. It was a demand. Ivy looked down. The man's hand was covered in blood and mud, ruining her white sock.

She tried to shake him off. He held on tighter. His knuckles were white. Even half-dead, his survival instinct was terrifying.

Ivy sighed. The sound was lost in the roar of the rain. She crouched down. She pressed two fingers against the side of his neck.

His pulse was thready. Erratic. She did the math in her head. Thirty percent chance of survival if moved. Ninety percent chance of police involvement if left.

She stood up and pried his fingers off her ankle one by one.

"Bad investment," she thought. "Die quietly."

She walked away. The man let out a low, guttural growl of pain behind her. It was the sound of an animal refusing to accept its fate.

Ivy stopped ten meters away.

She thought of