Chapter 3 - The Flight from the Auditorium
The warning text message sat glowing on my screen like a digital fuse burning down to the powder keg.
Before I could process the warning, the heavy metal fire exit door behind me clicked and swung inward. Two security guards in dark navy uniforms stepped into the quiet corridor, their eyes scanning the room methodically. When their gaze locked onto my gray baby carrier and the dark blue folder clutched in my hand, their expressions hardened instantly.
“Excuse me, miss,” the taller guard said, stepping forward with an authoritative stride. “Are you Valerie Mendoza?”
My instincts—honed by years of scraping by, dodging landlords, and surviving my mother’s psychological games—flared to life.
“Why?” I asked, keeping my voice level while slowly sliding the documents back into the blue leather folder and tucking it securely beneath my arm.
“University administration requests that all graduates return backstage items immediately for administrative auditing,” the second guard said, though his hand drifted downward toward the heavy radio clipped to his belt. “Step this way, please. Dr. Vance’s office wants a word with you.”
Dr. Vance had just handed me the folder and told me my real life was starting. Why would his own administrative staff want it back under the guise of an audit?
Because Dr. Vance wasn't running the entire administration. The university’s board of regents—the very people exposed by the financial wire receipts in my hand—held the real power.
“I’ll drop the folder off at the main desk later,” I said, taking two quick steps backward toward the opposite exit door.
“Miss Mendoza, don’t make this difficult,” the first guard snapped, moving faster to block the exit. “Hand over the portfolio now.”
I didn't wait. I turned on my heel and bolted down the service hallway.
The heavy rubber soles of my sensible black flats squeaked against the freshly waxed linoleum as I rounded a sharp corner, heading toward the loading dock behind the auditorium. Behind me, the sharp shouts of the guards echoed down the corridor.
“Hey! Stop right there!”
Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and sharp. I patted Riley gently against my chest, whispering frantically, “Hold on tight, baby girl, we’re going on a fast ride.” She stirred, letting out a soft grunt of protest against the sudden movement, but her tiny body remained securely locked in the carrier harness.
I shoved open the heavy metal exit door leading out to the campus service alley.
The afternoon sun hit my eyes with blinding intensity. The cool spring breeze caught the edges of my black graduation gown, billowing it out behind me like a pair of dark wings.
Parked twenty feet away near the dumpsters was my battered, ten-year-old Honda Civic—a car whose transmission rattled like a bag of bolts and whose driver’s side door required a specific, forceful slam to latch properly.
I sprinted across the asphalt, fumbled in my pocket for the worn brass key, jammed it into the lock, and yanked the door open.
As I threw myself into the driver’s seat, adjusting my posture carefully so I wouldn't crush Riley against the steering wheel, the service door of the auditorium banged open behind me. The two security guards burst out into the alley, pointing directly at my car.
“That’s her! Stop that vehicle!”
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I jammed the key into the ignition, twisted it hard, and pumped the gas pedal. The engine sputtered, coughed twice like an old man clearing his throat, and finally roared to life with a satisfying cloud of gray exhaust.
I threw the gearshift into reverse, slammed my foot down on the gas, and tore out of the alley just as the guards reached the edge of the pavement.
