Chapter 7: Photocopies At The Public Library
The afternoon air was brisk, carrying the sharp scent of fallen pine needles and exhaust from the county bus route. I walked out of the school gates with my blue backpack zipped tight, my fingers clamped around the spine of a thick, spiral-bound notebook. Inside those pages lay the photocopies and handwritten transcripts I’d managed to extract from Mr. Vance’s locked mahogany desk—six months of bank statements, missing trust signatures, and diverted estate checks bearing his heavy, confident signature. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every passing sedan looked like his black sedan; every shadow near the curb looked like the brim of his sunglasses.
Ethan was waiting by the low stone wall at the corner of Oak and Fifth, his navy blue zip-up hoodie half-zipped over his white button-up shirt and tie. He pushed off the stone as I approached, his eyes scanning my face with practiced vigilance.
"You got them?" he asked, his voice low, steady, carefully devoid of panic.
I nodded, my throat tight. I pulled the notebook slightly forward, letting him see the heavy bulge of pages within. "They're all there. Every deposit slip from the commercial bank downtown, and the ledger sheets where he changed the account titles."
"All right," Ethan said, adjusting the straps of his own bag. "The library's four blocks down. It's quiet this time of day. Mrs. Higgins usually sits at the front desk and reads her murder mysteries, she won't pay attention to the copiers in the back corner."
We walked in a deliberate, measured pace, keeping a few feet between us so we wouldn't look like conspirators if someone from the neighborhood happened to drive by. The town public library was a brick building with tall arched windows that caught the fading orange light of the autumn sun. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, floor wax, and radiator heat. The main room was nearly empty save for an elderly man dozing in an armchair near the periodical racks.
We slipped down the central aisle toward the self-service copy station tucked behind the microfilm cabinets. The machine was an old, clunky gray console with a green glowing screen and a coin-op slot bolted to its side.
Ethan dropped his backpack to the linoleum floor and reached into his khaki pocket, pulling out a handful of silver coins. He separated three quarters and two dimes, his knuckles slightly scraped from recess soccer.
"Let me see the pages," he whispered, gesturing toward my notebook.
I unzipped the front flap and carefully slid out the original financial sheets, smoothing the folded corners against the cool Formica table. Mr. Vance’s ledger entries stared back at us in neat black ink, detailing thousands of dollars siphoned from the estate funds meant for my education and housing.
"We need to be fast," I murmured, my hands trembling as I lifted the heavy plastic lid of the copier. "If he checks the study before dinner—"
"He won't," Ethan interrupted gently, sliding the first sheet face down on the glass. "He's at the country club until six on Tuesdays. We have time."
He fed a quarter into the slot with a metallic clink, and the machine whirred to life, its internal bulb casting a harsh, brilliant green flash across our faces. The rhythmic hum of the rollers filled our ears as the first duplicate sheet slid into the output tray. Ethan picked it up instantly, checking the alignment against the original. The numbers were crisp, every signature and stamped bank seal rendered in sharp black toner.
For the next twenty minutes, we worked in synchronized silence. Ethan fed the pages and deposited the coins one by one, while I sorted the originals back into exact chronological order and verified that every single line of incriminating evidence had been captured. The heat of the machine washed over our arms, and the faint smell of hot ozone filled the small alcove. We didn't speak; every second felt measured, every slight mechanical click of the copier sounding dangerously loud in the quiet room.
When the final duplicate sheet dropped into the tray, Ethan gathered the fresh stack of copies, tapping them against the metal ledge to square the edges. He folded the entire set neatly in half, sliding them inside a plain manila folder he had pulled from his own backpack.
"Here," Ethan said, handing the manila folder back to me. "Put these in your bag, right at the bottom under your civics textbook."
"What about you?" I asked, looking down at the pristine originals still clutched in my hand.
"I'll take the duplicates," Ethan said firmly, zipping his hoodie all the way up to his chin. "If he searches your room and finds the originals, he finds them. But if he doesn't know there's a second set locked away safe... he can't stop what's coming."
I stared at him, the weight of his steady, unblinking loyalty pressing down on my chest until my eyes stung with sudden, hot tears. "Ethan, if he finds out you helped me—"
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"He won't," Ethan said, offering a small, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now give me the originals so you can put them back in the desk before he gets home."
With trembling fingers, I handed the original ledgers back to him. He slipped them into the front pocket of his navy hoodie, pressing them flat against his chest. We walked out of the library in reverse order, parting ways at the corner of Fifth Street—I heading back toward the dark, imposing facade of Mr. Vance's house with the hidden duplicates buried deep in my backpack, and Ethan turning toward his street with the dangerous originals secure in his locker, ready for the next step.
