By the time Leah Benson collapsed, half the chemistry class already had their phones out.

The interrogation room at the Oakridge Police Department smelled faintly of damp concrete and old coffee. The metallic cold of the handcuffs had seeped through Sadie’s wrists, leaving her arms stiff and numb. Across the scarred wooden table sat Detective Marcus Vance, a man whose weary eyes suggested he had seen every shade of teenage deception the city had to offer.

"Let's go over this one more time, Sadie," Vance said, leaning back in his chair. He tapped a printed sheet of paper resting on his folder. "The emergency room doctors managed to stabilize Leah Benson. She suffered an acute reaction to a synthetic cognitive booster—a black-market stimulant laced with trace amounts of industrial amphetamine derivatives. The toxicology report confirms it."

"I didn't give it to her," Sadie said, her voice raspy. She hadn't drank water in four hours. "I told you. She came to class already trembling. She told me she bought them at school to study for the AP Chemistry midterms."

"And yet, Mr. Crowe states he witnessed you slip a bag of blue pills into her locker during homeroom," Vance said smoothly. "And when the police searched your bag, they found six identical blue pills in your front pocket."

"Because someone planted them!" Sadie leaned forward, the chain between her cuffs clinking loudly against the table. "Look at my phone records! I called 911 at 10:14 AM. I was connected to poison control at 10:15 AM. The specialist, a woman named Dr. Miller, explicitly authorized me to administer the activated charcoal from the emergency cabinet because Leah was conscious and within the twenty-minute ingestion window."

Vance sighed, opening a blue folder. "We checked your phone, Sadie. The call log shows a two-minute call to 911, yes. But Mr. Crowe claims he heard you forcing her to swallow an unknown liquid before the paramedics arrived, potentially risking an aspiration hazard. And as for the video circulating on social media—"

"The video was edited!" Sadie interrupted, frustration burning in her chest. "It was filmed by Julian Croft. He only started recording after Leah stopped talking. And Mr. Crowe—you need to check Mr. Crowe’s hands."

Vance raised an eyebrow. "His hands?"

"When they were taking Leah out, I saw Mr. Crowe go to her backpack," Sadie urged, her heart hammering against her ribs. "He took her phone out, walked into the chemistry prep room, and destroyed her memory card. Why would a teacher destroy a student's SD card while she's being rushed to the ICU?"

Detective Vance stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. For a fraction of a second, Sadie thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. But then he closed the folder. "Mr. Crowe is a respected educator who has run the Academic Excellence Program for fifteen years. You, on the other hand, are facing felony charges for possession and distribution of a controlled substance resulting in severe bodily harm."

He stood up, buttoning his jacket. "Your father is outside with a lawyer. Because you're seventeen, you're being released into his custody pending formal arraignment. But I suggest you stop accusing your teachers of grand conspiracies, Sadie. It doesn't look good."

Thirty minutes later, Sadie walked out of the precinct into the cold autumn rain. Her father, Thomas Monroe, stood beside a beat-up sedan. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot with stress. He didn't ask her if she did it. He simply opened the passenger door and said, "Get in, sweetie."

"Dad, I didn't—"

"I know," Thomas said quietly, staring out at the rain-slicked pavement. "I know you didn't, Sadie. Your mother and I brought you up to help people. But right now, the entire school thinks you tried to poison your best friend's rival."

As they drove home through the dimming twilight, Sadie pulled her phone from her pocket. Her screen was flooded with notifications. The video had gone viral within the Oakridge High network. The comments were brutal: Psychopath. She tried to murder Leah. Hope she rots in jail.

Sadie swiped past the hatred and opened her gallery. She didn't have the video, but she had something else. Two weeks ago, during a late-night study session in the prep room, she had taken a photo of the lab schedule pinned to the wall. In the background, partially cropped out, was Mr. Crowe’s personal desk.