The notebook didn't leave my side after that.
For days, I read and reread every page, tracing Ethan's words, his deductions, the careful connections he had drawn between people and events. It was more than just notes—it was a strategy. A chessboard with all the pieces mapped out. Except the king wasn't dead. He had just walked off the board and hoped no one would notice.
James Bennett wasn't just gone. He had been removed—or had removed himself—with care, planning, and a web of silence so tight it bordered on surgical. Ethan had marked names I vaguely remembered: teachers who had been quietly reassigned, students who had dropped out after brief confrontations or incidents that no one talked about anymore. One of the files referenced a "Curriculum Oversight Meeting" that had mysteriously gone unrecorded. Another pointed out that Bennett's name had been erased from the annual school report three years ago. Not crossed out—deleted, as though he had never existed.
And yet here I was, holding a physical copy of his ID. A leftover mistake. A ghost in the machine.
At lunch, Henry waved me over as usual, smiling between bites of his sandwich.
"You've been spacing out lately," he said. "Everything good?"
"Just adjusting," I muttered.
"You mean sulking," he grinned. "Come on, man. New year. New chances."
I managed a laugh, but my mind was still far away. I wasn't sulking—I was watching the board shift.
Later that afternoon, I caught Ethan by the stairs outside the science building. I didn't call out. He just stopped, like he already knew I was behind him.
"I've been reading," I said.
"I figured."
"I want to dig deeper. Into everything."
Ethan gave a slow nod. "Then we need to go to the archives."
I blinked. "What archives?"
He turned, hands in his coat pockets. "There's a room under the old west wing—part of the admin building, before they renovated it. Barely anyone goes there. It holds records going back over twenty years. They don't keep it locked."
"Why not?"
"Because most people don't even know it exists."
We waited until Thursday. After hours, the hallways dimmed and the school grew quiet. Henry was at football practice, and for once, we didn't tell him anything. This wasn't a "hunt the hidden" excursion—not anymore. This was personal.
Ethan led the way, his steps soundless. The west wing had always felt colder to me, the older tiles echoing underfoot. We found the door tucked between two old filing cabinets, half-covered by a forgotten corkboard filled with faded announcements.
Inside, dust coated everything. Rows of shelves stood like silent soldiers, each one crammed with folders, binders, boxes marked with fading ink. It didn't take long for Ethan to find the right stack.
"Here," he said, tapping a file marked Faculty – 5 Years Ago.
We sat on the ground, knees brushing against dusty boxes. Page after page passed between us. Schedules, staff evaluations, student surveys. All of it dry—until I found it.
A transfer form. Faintly stamped. Signed off by the former principal.
James Bennett – reassigned to external academic development project. No return date.
Attached was a reference memo. No specifics. No reasons. But someone had redacted parts of it—clumsily, with black ink that still bled the shapes of letters if you tilted it under the light.
"Look at this," I whispered.
Ethan leaned in. "That doesn't say 'reassigned.' That says 'removed.'"
We both went still. Outside, the wind hissed softly against the windows, a distant echo of a truth being slowly unburied.
"This was a cover-up," I said.
"Yes," Ethan murmured. "But the question is… why?"
I suddenly remembered something else: James Bennett hadn't just manipulated me. He had positioned me. Pushed me toward a program he had influence over, pulled me away from independent study. He had never taught in the conventional sense—he had steered me. Toward what?
That night, I couldn't sleep. I copied the memo into my notebook, every word, every misaligned stamp. I didn't know where this trail would end—but I was following it now, with eyes wide open.
The next morning, Henry asked why I didn't reply to his messages. I told him I'd fallen asleep early.
"Liar," he grinned. "You've got that look in your eyes again. Like you're up to something."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe I am."
And deep down, I knew: this wasn't just about revenge anymore.
It was about truth.
Even if it burned everything down.