Karen smirked through the pain, real soft. The kind of grin you give when the world thinks you've lost but you're about to play your card from under the damn table.
Cedric's private cam. His "don't-trust-anyone" camera. He called it the "fuck-you insurance."
She didn't even breathe too hard. Just swiped the drive like it was routine, slid it into her hoodie pocket, and slipped back out the door without a sound. No need to stick around—she'd already seen more than the cops did in three days.
She dipped out the back, hopping the crooked fence like a pro, hoodie pulled low, heart punching in her chest. The whole neighborhood was dead quiet except some bored dogs barking at streetlights and the occasional flick of a neighbor's blinds.
By the time she got to her cousin's apartment, her Vans were soaked in gutter water and her brain felt like it was buffering. But she kept it moving. One creaky door, one hallway sprint, and she was in her borrowed bedroom.
Lock.
Curtains.
Laptop.
