Henry didn't even look up. "That's the Virgin May. Well, that's what people call her."
"Right. So who's Becky Moonwell?"
Now Henry put down his phone and stared at his friend like he'd just announced plans to swim to Antarctica. "Dude? Why are you asking about Becky Moonwell?"
The bus was still crawling past campus, getting ready to leave the school grounds. Henry pointed out the window at a group of girls standing outside the main gate, probably waiting for rides from parents who actually cared.
"Oh, is she the one in—"
"That one with the red ribbon. Behind the heavy girl in the blue jacket."
Mark spotted her just as the bus picked up speed. Brunette with short hair that framed her face perfectly, giving her an almost pixie-like quality. The dress looked tailored on her, like she actually cared how she presented herself. Then she was gone, disappearing from view as the bus turned the corner.
"Becky Moonwell is from the Moonwell family," Henry explained, slipping into that teaching mode he used when explaining obvious things to his oblivious friend. "No boyfriend at Conbert. Guys are literally scared to approach her. She's a junior, which makes it even weirder.
Plus, her family is loaded. Like, stupid rich. Her dad owns half the commercial real estate downtown. Maybe more."
"You nerds getting off or what?" A voice came from the back of the bus, dripping with teenage contempt.
Mark turned to see a freshman with an attitude problem trying to look tough for his friends.
"Did this little punk just talk to us?" Mark asked, genuinely surprised.
Henry made a calming gesture, clearly used to this treatment. Maybe he was fine accepting his place at the bottom of the social food chain. But Mark wasn't.
They stood and headed for the exit. As Mark passed the blonde girl, May, their eyes met again and they both smiled. Something about her steady gaze felt different from the other students.
"Thanks, Mr. Smith," Henry called to the driver as they stepped off onto the cracked sidewalk.
The bus pulled away in a cloud of diesel exhaust, leaving them on a quiet residential street. Mark's mind was already racing through possibilities, running calculations. A junior girl who made senior boys too nervous to even try.
Twenty-four hours to get her number and earn a hundred thousand dollars. No pressure. Time to get creative.
Henry walked Mark to his door but didn't come inside, even though Detective Lidorf's car was already parked in the driveway.
"Alright, bro. See you tomorrow. Got stuff to handle at home. You know what it is."
"Yeah. Thanks for everything today."
"Just try not to get beat up again tomorrow, okay? I'm running out of excuses to tell your dad."
Mark let himself in. Detective Lidorf was sprawled on the couch in his undershirt and work pants, watching the evening news.
"You're back," his father said without looking away from the screen.
"Yeah, how was your day, sir?" Mark settled onto the other end of the couch, careful of his bruised ribs. The weirdness of being the son of someone young enough to have been his own child hadn't worn off yet.
"Pretty good, actually. Heard you stood up for yourself today." Detective Lidorf finally looked over, taking in the stitches and bruising with a cop's practiced assessment. "That's how the world works, Mark. Can't let people walk all over you."
"Yeah. Still learning."
On screen, a news anchor was announcing major developments at Pabebuncano Industries. The company had appointed a new CEO to stabilize operations following Hugo's unexpected death. Ben Sentara, who now controlled the majority shares through a complex web of holdings, would be taking the helm effective immediately.
The pieces clicked together with crystal clarity. Ben had killed him, doctored the will, framed it as natural causes, then positioned himself to take control of everything Hugo had built.
"What do you think about Don Hugo's death?" Detective Lidorf's question pulled Mark back to the present.
"I think something's off about it."
His father nodded slowly, something like relief crossing his face. "Something's definitely wrong. Everything's moving too fast. The will getting processed overnight. The CEO appointment. The way the investigation got shut down from above." He paused, clearly wanting to say more but holding back.
Mark could see it in his father's face. This was a man who lived for his work, who saw patterns others missed, who'd probably been seeing through Hugo's operations for years. But he was also being careful not to burden his traumatized son with case details.
"There's food in the fridge," Detective Lidorf said, standing up and stretching. "Leftover pizza. Heat it up if you want. I've got the evening shift."
The countdown timer appeared in Mark's vision, transparent white numbers floating over reality like a ticking bomb.
[COUNTDOWN: 22:50:10]
He needed to finish this task. Needed that money to start building something, to climb out of this hole. But if the Moonwells were as wealthy and protected as Henry said, the only realistic chance to approach Becky would be at school tomorrow.
Detective Lidorf emerged from his bedroom in a full suit, the kind he wore for important meetings. He was adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror.
"This is for you." He handed Mark an iPhone. Not the latest model, probably a few generations old, but it worked. "Henry mentioned you lost yours."
"Thank you, Dad." The word still felt strange in his mouth, but his father's face lit up every time he heard it.
Detective Lidorf started toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the knob. He turned back, something heavy weighing on him.
"I'm meeting with Ben Sentara this evening." He said it casually. "If you need anything, call me. I'll have my phone on."
Then he was gone. The door clicked shut. The sound of his car engine faded into the distance, leaving Mark alone with the knowledge that his father was walking into a meeting with Hugo's murderer.
Mark sat alone in the quiet house, staring at the phone in his hands. His father was about to sit across from Ben Sentara, completely unaware of the danger. Unaware that he was talking to someone who'd orchestrated a murder so perfect it looked like natural causes. But Mark couldn't warn him.
He pulled up the phone's browser and started researching, falling back on habits that had served him for decades. The Moonwell family owned commercial properties across three states.
Becky was a junior, which meant she'd be sixteen or seventeen at most. No social media presence, which was unusual for her generation.
He had less than twenty-two hours to figure out how a broke, beaten-up nerd could get the attention of a girl whose family probably had security details and background checks for anyone who came within ten feet of her.