Chum

The rally is in full swing by the time we arrive. There's a decent-sized crowd gathered around a makeshift stage, where a man I assume is Martinez is speaking passionately about… something. I can't quite make out the words over the sound of the crowd.

We push our way through the throng, trying to get closer to the stage. As we near the front, I start to catch snippets of Martinez's speech.

"…time for a change in this city! We need leadership that puts the people first, not the corporations and the fat cats!"

The crowd cheers, and I exchange a glance with Jordan. This guy seems pretty fired up.

"And let me tell you something about my opponent, Maya Richardson," Martinez continues, his voice rising. "She talks a big game about helping the community, but where does her money really come from? Who's really pulling the strings?"

My ears perk up at this. Maybe this guy knows something we don't.

As soon as Martinez finishes his speech and steps down from the stage, we make our move. Pushing past the crowd of supporters trying to shake his hand or get a selfie, we manage to corner him near a table laden with campaign literature.

"Mr. Martinez," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "We were hoping we could ask you a few questions about Maya Richardson."

Martinez looks us up and down, his expression guarded. "And who might you be? You look a little young to be reporters."

I falter for a moment, but Jordan steps in smoothly. "We're student journalists, sir. Working on a piece about the upcoming election for our school paper."

Martinez's face relaxes into a smile. "Ah, well that's different then. Always good to see young people taking an interest in local politics. What do you want to know?"

"You mentioned something about Richardson's money," I say, seizing the opportunity. "What did you mean by that? Do you know something about her finances?"

Martinez's smile fades, replaced by a more serious expression. "Look, kids, I can't go throwing around accusations without proof. That's not how this game works. But let's just say that I've heard things. Rumors, you know? About where some of her campaign contributions are coming from. About certain… business dealings that don't quite add up."

I lean in closer, my heart racing. "What kind of business dealings?"

Martinez glances around, as if checking to make sure no one's listening in. "There's talk of shell companies. Offshore accounts. Money moving around in ways that don't make sense for a legitimate business. But like I said, it's all just rumors. Nothing I can prove. And certainly nothing I'd like to be on the record about."

I nod, trying to hide my excitement. This is the closest thing to a lead we've had in days. "Do you have any idea where we might be able to find more information about this?"

Martinez shakes his head, grimacing in fear as he looks at my notebook with a sort of delirious glower. "Sorry, kids. I've already said more than I should. You want my advice? Leave this alone. Richardson's got powerful friends. It's not safe to go digging too deep, if you catch my drift."

With that, he turns away, moving to greet another group of supporters. Jordan and I exchange glances, both of us thinking the same thing: we might be onto something here.

As we leave the rally, my mind is racing with possibilities. Shell companies, offshore accounts… it's not much, but it's a start. Maybe if we can track down some of these companies, find out who's really behind them…

But even as I'm getting excited about this new lead, a part of me knows it's probably too late. The election is tomorrow. Even if we could find concrete proof of Richardson's wrongdoing in the next 24 hours - which seems unlikely - would it be enough to stop her from winning?

I push the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. We've got work to do.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of frantic activity. We hit the library, poring over business records and financial reports. Jordan does their best to navigate the labyrinth of online databases, while I make what feels like a million phone calls, trying to track down anyone who might have information about these mysterious shell companies.

But it's like trying to catch smoke with our bare hands. Every lead we follow turns into a dead end. Every promising bit of information turns out to be a false alarm. By the time the sun starts to set, we're both exhausted and no closer to the truth than we were this morning.

We trudge back to the Music Hall, our spirits at an all-time low. Tasha's waiting for us when we arrive, her face lighting up with hope as we enter.

"Did you find anything?" she asks eagerly.

I shake my head, collapsing onto the worn-out couch that serves as our main piece of furniture. "Nothing concrete. Just more rumors and dead ends."

Jordan slumps down next to me, their face a mask of frustration. "We're out of time. The election's tomorrow, and we've got nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Tasha's face falls, but she tries to rally. "Come on, guys. There's got to be something we can do. What about that stuff Martinez told you about the shell companies?"

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "We tried, Tash. But it's like trying to solve a Rubik's Cube blindfolded. Everything's so tangled up and hidden behind layers of legal BS. We'd need a team of forensic accountants and about six months to even start making sense of it all."

"And we've got neither," Jordan adds glumly.

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our failure settling over us like a heavy blanket. I can't help but think about all the people who are going to vote tomorrow, blissfully unaware that they might be electing a supervillain to the City Council. It makes me feel sick to my stomach.

"Maybe…" Tasha starts, then trails off.

"Maybe what?" I ask, looking up at her.

She shrugs, looking uncomfortable. "I don't know. Maybe we're going about this all wrong. Maybe instead of trying to prove Richardson is guilty, we should be focusing on getting people to see how good the other candidates are?"

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, because Duvall is such a shining beacon of hope and change."

I wince, remembering our disastrous meeting with the Republican candidate. "Yeah, let's maybe not go that route. But… I don't know. Maybe Tasha's onto something. Maybe we need to think outside the box here."

"The box is all we've got left," Jordan mutters. "Unless you've got some kind of mind-reading superpower you've been hiding from us."

I shake my head, feeling the familiar ache of frustration and helplessness settling in my chest. "No such luck. Just my usual bag of shark-based tricks."

We lapse into silence again, each lost in our own thoughts. The ticking of the old clock on the wall seems impossibly loud in the quiet room, a constant reminder of how little time we have left.

Finally, I push myself to my feet. "Look, guys. I know things seem pretty hopeless right now. But we can't give up. We've got one more day. One more chance to find something, anything, that might make a difference."

Jordan looks up at me, their expression a mix of skepticism and grudging admiration. "And how exactly do you propose we do that, Oh Great and Toothy One?"

I shrug, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "I don't know. But we've got to try. We owe it to the city. To ourselves. To… to Liberty Belle."

At the mention of Diane see something shift in Jordan's eyes. They nod slowly, pushing themselves up off the couch. "Alright. One more day. But if we don't find anything by tomorrow night…"

"Then we admit defeat and you can get us all high," I finish for them. "Deal?"

Jordan's face breaks out into a toothy grin. "Deal."

Tasha looks between us, her expression determined. "Count me in too. I may not have any fancy powers, but I can still help. Someone's got to keep you two from doing anything too stupid, right?"

I laugh, feeling some of the tension ease out of my shoulders. "Right. Okay, team. Let's get some rest. Tomorrow, we give it everything we've got."

As we start to tidy up the Music Hall, getting ready to call it a night, I can't help but feel a flicker of hope in my chest. Maybe we're outmatched. Maybe we're in way over our heads. But we're not giving up. Not yet.

Tomorrow is another day. Another chance to make a difference. Another chance to be the heroes this city needs.

And who knows? Maybe miracles do happen. Maybe we'll wake up tomorrow and Richardson will have been struck by lightning or something. Or maybe she'll have a sudden attack of conscience and confess to all her crimes on live TV.

Yeah, right. And maybe pigs will fly and I'll grow a second row of teeth.

But hey, a girl can dream, right?