When Max isn't busy saving my life over and over, she's off saving the lives of her fellow Blackwell students. Normally, I wouldn't lose much sleep over the loss of someone like Taylor or Courtney or our beloved Queen Bee Victoria, but Super Max actually managed to talk Kate Marsh down from the dormitory roof after a video was plastered all over the internet showing Kate completely wasted and making out with thirteen different guys at a Vortex Club Party. I'll give you thirteen guesses as to who was responsible for broadcasting the offending video and the first twelve don't count.

[10/09/2013 11:26AM] Chloe: did you seriously put that shit on the internet?
[10/09/2013 11:48AM] Victoria: Chloe. What an unexpected and unsolicited surprise. Whatever are you talking about?
[10/09/2013 11:49AM] Chloe: the video of kate scrubbing all those dudes teeth clean with her tongue
[10/09/2013 11:49AM] Chloe: why the fuck would you do that to someone like her?
[10/09/2013 11:53AM] Victoria: I had nothing to do with that. The poor girl did it to herself. As for the video, the internet works its own magic.
[10/09/2013 11:54AM] Victoria: I will say that she's lucky her self-dissemination didn't lead to insemination.
[10/09/2013 11:54AM] Chloe: you're lucky my fist doesn't lead to a face crater
[10/09/2013 12:19PM] Victoria: Oh, my. Well, I don't exactly need a pounding, but it sounds like someone else could use one.
[10/09/2013 12:19PM] Victoria: Be a dear and keep me out of your thoughts? And my number out of your phone. Ciao ciao.

With David's security keys in hand and David sound asleep, I slink out through my window and drive off to Blackwell, where Max and I are going to do some good old-fashioned midnight detective work researching Rachel's disappearance.

[10/09/2013 11:26PM] Chloe: max
[10/09/2013 11:27PM] Chloe: I have something to show you
[10/09/2013 11:28PM] Chloe: meet me in front of campus

I hide behind one of the bushes near the brick wall that surrounds the main courtyard. I fiddle with the miniature leaves and adjust my beanie while I wait for Max to get her bony ass down here. She lives like ten feet away. Five minutes later I spot a pencil-thin figure sporting a lump on her hip.

"Boo!"

She spits up on the sidewalk.

"Shit," I say. "Sorry, dude."

"I'm not a dude," says Max.

"Well, obviously. I just meant…"

"You just meant to be an insensitive asshole. You know I don't like it when you surprise me. And this is the kind of day where I don't need any more surprises."

"I thought a rock star like you wouldn't mind taking a break from saving lives to have a bit of fun. I guess I've forgotten what you do for entertainment."

"So have I," says Max. "And I didn't save Kate's life—she made that decision herself. I had no idea what to say to her."

"You didn't need to. You talked her down and that's all that matters. Just like you don't need to be a detective to help me figure out what's going on."

"What exactly are we doing out here?"

"We're doing some cloak and dagger shit. But instead of daggers, we have keys."

I show her David's security keys.

"Where did you get those?"

"Anything's possible when you're a ninja. And related to the head of Blackwell security."

"Isn't that breaking and entering?"

"How can it be breaking if you have the key? Come on."

I head off toward the main entrance to the main building in full view of the floodlights that illuminate the photography teacher's avant garde billboard smut. There's a tug at my arm—Max pulls me behind one of the billboards and crouches down.

"Thank you again, Mr. Jefferson, from the bottom of my heart for helping me put together a portfolio," says Victoria.

"I just hope that the rest of the class will follow your lead." A man's voice. "I'm sorry I was distracted. As you know, today has not been a very good day for Blackwell."

"I don't know what I would have done if Katie had jumped," says Victoria.

"Bullshit," I whisper. Max puts her hand over my mouth.

"Katie?" says Mr. Jefferson. "I had no idea you two were close."

"I don't want to talk about it," says Victoria. "I actually wanted to talk to you about something else: the Everyday Heroes contest."

"Right. Well, the contest will go on, just as life will. However, I won't be representing Blackwell at the contest this year thanks to Max, who claims that I was the one who kick-started this entire series of events simply by listening to Kate's pleas and failing to demonstrate unquestioning support for her assertions."

Max clamps down on my cheeks even harder.

"I'll give you a one-word sneak preview of Max's entry," says Victoria. "Selfie. Listen…you've seen my work. You know it's better than that self-indulgent bullshit. Don't you think I'm a more worldly and sophisticated representative of the best of what Blackwell has to offer, Mark?"

"Let's stick to Mr. Jefferson, Victoria. I'll give your entry the same consideration that I give to everyone else's. It's only fair. Good night."

"Mister Jefferson," Victoria says to his footsteps. "You already love my work, so it's not like you're playing favorites. Just imagine if you picked my photo. We'd have to spend a lot of time together. Don't you think that could be…fun? Stimulating?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," says Mr. Jefferson.

"Are you also going to pretend that you didn't offer to choose my photo for favors?"

"You have a bright future ahead of you, Miss Chase. I wouldn't want to see anything or anyone cast a shadow on it. As a favor to you, I'm going to ignore your undisguised threat. I suggest you go back to your dorm room."

"Wait!" says Victoria.

The once-mighty Bitchmobile mopes her way down the sidewalk and into the darkness beyond the courtyard's perimeter walls. I put up my hand for a high five. Max puts her finger to her lips. She motions her head toward the entrance.

"Max, you are totally awesome and I stand in awe of your photography skills. But let me just get one thing straight: you had David, Nathan, and Mr. Photography in the Principal's office and you pointed the finger at the guy who pulls the trigger on a camera shutter?"

"You told me not to trust Principal Wells. David's the head of security and Nathan seems like he can get away with anything. I was scared of what might happen."

"That's an excellent fucking point."

As soon as I enter the secretary's office, I punch Principal Wells's door. That doesn't work, so I start trying keys. None of them works.

"Shit. Step-fucker has the key to every door on campus except the one we need to get into."

"Maybe we should just call this off."

I slam my shoulder into the door.

"Or maybe I could help look for the key," says Max.

She walks over to a pegged cork board on the far wall with a bunch of keys hanging off it. I jiggle the handle while staring into the keyhole.

"None of these are it, Chloe. They're all keys to empty dorm rooms and janitor's closets and maintenance rooms."

"Awesome. I guess I'll try those lock picking skills Frank taught me."

"Frank taught you the art of thievery?"

I take out my tools—metal ear wax cleaners—and start fucking around with the insides of the keyhole. Max puts her phone's flashlight on the burnished metal plating of the handle's housing.

"Frank didn't teach me shit," I say. "It's just something I tell myself so I don't feel like such a loser for spending time around him. You have any better ideas?"

"Actually, I do. I'm gonna go put it together. Can you stay here and not get caught?"

"As long as I stay away from breakable objects, Chloe the Ninja should be just fine. And I might even get to the other side of that door before you do, Lupin."

"The race is on. See you soon."

I make another couple futile attempts at picking the lock, but it does me about as much good as picking my nose. I'd rather just blow the door open with a bomb, but that would leave evidence.

"This is bullshit. Fuck you, door!"

The door responds by opening.

"Welcome to my domain," says Max.

"The domain of air ducts big enough to accommodate your bony ass? Wells must use those to deliver his booze without attracting attention."

"Let's find what we need and beat it."

I turn on a nightstand lamp only to be slapped across the face by your neighborhood retail outlet's finest collection of generic wall paintings, mass-produced statuettes, and books whose primary purpose is to make the bookshelves they inhabit look useful. I plop my ass down into the most useful-looking thing in the room: a padded brown leather chair that gently cups my ass cheeks while giving me a back massage. I decide to make Wells's desk just as useful by putting my boots up on it.

"Man," I say. "I can see why he locks this room up. Fancy faux art crap. Probably wants everyone to know he has money, but no taste." I spy a bronze bust that looks like a bird would if it had been shit out by a larger bird. "How can you trust somebody who has a fucking bronze eagle on his desk? I'm glad I was expelled."

"Yes," says Max as she peers at bookshelves and closed cabinet doors. "If only the Principal had a Monet or a Picasso you'd still be here."

"Eat me. I'm going to pilfer the documents on this ugly-ass desk."

"I'll take the cabinets."

I shuffle through papers and notes and notices and letterhead forms, only to find a bunch of crap that would make for great bedside reading material. His personal computer looks a lot more promising, so I turn on the monitor and prepare to get to work at guessing his password. Turns out, he doesn't even put a password on the lock screen. Probably wouldn't be able to remember it since he's hammered half the time he's in here.

"What should I look for?" says Max.

"Information on whoever you can find. Rachel, Kate, Nathan, anybody."

Max rummages through closets and cabinets while I look over discipline reports, letters from Sean Prescott, evidence of expunged records, police reports detailing damaged property, messed up pencil drawings. A letter on Wells's desk written in ornate cursive handwriting catches my eye—it's a complaint from Ms. Grant about David's plans for cameras on campus. Now I'm really fucking glad I got expelled. This doesn't bode so well for Max, though. And these creepy drawings don't exactly put me at ease.

"I think I've found what we need," says Max.

"You'd better come check out these files," I say. "Nathan accused Rachel of bringing drugs on campus. And step-troll went along with it because he thought Rachel was a bad influence on me."

"Ouch. If David is teaming up with Nathan Prescott, that's a bad sign."

"This just proves that Nathan already has almost everyone in his pocket. Look at this shit: 'Nathan Prescott the Third.' That fucker actually tried to get me to believe he doesn't have access to the family cash stash, but you know they dropped major bank and half a whiskey factory to bury his real file. It all reads like a rap sheet: failing grades, teacher complaints, psychological assessments, secret probation. Meanwhile, my broke ass gets expelled."

"Check out that note," says Max. "Open it."

I click on the scribbles peeking out from behind a stack of windows.

"That's just some crazy drawing," I say.

"No, look closer. 'Rachel Amber in the dark room.' 'Rachel Amber in the dark room.' It's repeated over and over."

"That's fucked up," I say. "Now I know he has something to do with Rachel's disappearance."

"Listen to this: 'David M. always asks what's going on inside my head. David M. always helps me follow those he follows.' That sounds pretty cryptic…"

"Only if you haven't been hanging around the last three years," I say. Max exhales through her nose. "It's true. Two psychos on the same wavelength and now David is helping Nathan stalk people. How do you think Nathan knew where to find you in the parking lot?"

"I thought he just asked around."

"Not 'around.' He asked David, the head of security, the prick I have to live with who seems to magically always know where I am, including on a Sunday in the middle of summer when campus is as empty as a frat house without booze."

"And he's helping a fellow psycho find people who want nothing to do with his bullshit. Like me…"

"Which is exactly why you don't need to be walking around with that photo of a bathroom butterfly in your book bag. If they made Kate a target, they definitely wouldn't have a problem with witch-hunting Rachel. We are so going into Rambo's garage files. I don't give a fuck about his security systems."

I scroll through finances, academic records, tuition logs, overdue library book fees, parking tickets, personal emails. Just for shits and giggles, I type Max's name into the search box and up pops a bulletin from the Arcadia Bay Police Department.

"No fucking way," I say.

"What is it?"

"A notice to Wells from the ABPD that Frank Bowers turned in a gun to one of their contacts, claiming that a young woman named Max pointed it at him in the junkyard, then dropped the weapon and fled when he threatened to call the police. Bowers reports the young woman was wearing a light grey hoodie and carrying a dark blue book bag. Wells replied that a search of Blackwell enrollment records returned a student matching that description: Maxine Caulfield."

"Are you serious?" Max leans in next to me and reads through the e-mail exchange with her own eyes. "Oh my fucking god." She kneels down and puts her forehead on the surface of Wells's desk. "Didn't you say Frank was harmless?"

"Yeah, at least I thought so. I mean, I've known him for years and this is the first time I've heard of him doing shit like this."

"So why hasn't Wells busted me, then?"

"Probably because he was too busy busting open another bottle of brandy. Also, the next reply in the chain is from Sergeant Cook stating that Frank later recanted his statement when they traced the bullets in the gun back to a local gun shop owner whose logs confirmed the bullets were purchased by one of Frank's associates." I throw myself back in Wells's chair. "That ass. While we were strolling down the train tracks and waxing poetic, Frank was on his way to the fucking cops."

I stand up and bounce the chair off the backs of my legs. I start opening desk drawers just to see if there's anything that might help us on our way out of here and find a thick-stuffed envelope containing a stack of hundreds. I don't need to count them—the number 5,000 is written right on the front of the envelope.

"Max. Check the desk."

She lifts up her head. Her eyes find the wad of cash.

"What is that? 'Handicapped Fund.'"

"Whiskey-capped fund. A donation. You really think Principal Rumrunner is going to put a ramp out front?"

"I don't know."

"He's not, Max. There are better uses for it."

"Like what?"

"I could pay Frank off. He might talk to us about Rachel if he's been paid. But after that shit he pulled, I'm not so sure I want to give him anything."

"You could go by yourself," says Max. "Maybe he wouldn't want to see me."

"I'd rather not see him at all if I don't have to. Shit. I need a cigarette to kick-start my thoughts."

"In here?"

"Should I do it outside to make it easier for David to pinpoint my location?"

"Would he really be hanging around campus at midnight?"

"Yes, he would."

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking. I'll grab the fire extinguisher."

"Thanks, Max."

And then, because it's Max, she actually returns with a fire extinguisher.

"Just in case you light yourself on fire while you're smoking."

I stare at the envelope on the desk. Wells, Prescott—I bet they wipe their asses and fuel their Christmas fireplaces with this kind of money.

"Get that fire extinguisher ready, Max."

I take out my lighter. Max looks at me, then at the envelope.

"Are you crazy? He'll shut down the whole campus if he finds out someone vandalized his office!"

"Story time, Max. There used to be a security guard named Skip who worked here. Eventually, he moved on to bigger and better things: starting a rock band and going on tour. You know what he named his band?"

"Skipping Town?"

"Not a bad guess, but no. He named it Pisshead, after this guy." I point at the desk with both index fingers. "You could rob Wells blind and he'd be too hungover to notice, but if I so much as knock back a shot of his whiskey, he'll be up my ass about it tomorrow morning."

"Fuck. I hope you're right about this."

I take the bills out of the envelope, fan the tops of them into a nice spread, thumb my lighter's sparkwheel, and watch Benjamin Franklin's green-backed landscape portraits burn all the way down to my knuckles. I toss the remnants onto the desk. Max pops the fire extinguisher's pin and sprays them down.

"Done," I say. "Let's go for a swim."

"For a swim?! I thought we were supposed to be ninjas. And shouldn't we clean up first?"

"No. I want Wells to know somebody knows about his shit."

"Okay, but what if somebody saw us? What if this is being recorded?"

"The petition against installing David's security cameras passed. Check the letter on the desk."

"I know. I signed that petition."

"You're awesome, Max. Have I ever told you that?"

"I don't feel awesome."

"You will after we go for a dip and clean all this bullshit off our bodies. Besides, you deserve it after all the shit you've been through today. Splish splash?"

Max sighs.

"My life would be a lot less interesting without you in it. Splish splash."