Casey’s call shakes me awake—3 a.m., her voice sharp, saying she’s got proof. Morgan’s emails, Riley’s orders—it’s worse than we thought. I don’t sleep after that, just sit on Sam’s creaky bed, her words spinning in my head. She hacked into Morgan’s private stuff—found shady deals, corruption, and a note telling Riley to “take care of me.” It’s real—proof I didn’t do it, proof they set me up. My hands tremble as I hold the papers she dropped off at dawn—printouts, circled lines, Morgan’s dirty secrets. I’ve got something now, something solid, and I know where I have to go. Alex. He needs to see this, believe me, take me back.
I wait till morning, the sun barely up, gray light creeping in. Sam’s already gone to the garage, and the house is cold, quiet. I pull on my jacket, stuff the papers in my bag, and head out. My legs feel heavy, but I’m determined—Alex has to listen. The bookstore’s a short walk, and every step makes my chest tighter. I haven’t seen him since the coffee shop, since he sat there silent, not saving me. But this—Casey’s proof—it’s my shot. I clutch the bag strap, my heart pounding, and push the door open. The bell jingles, loud in the stillness.
Alex is behind the counter, sorting books, like always. He looks up, surprised, his hands freezing mid-stack. “Jamie?” he says, voice rough, like he wasn’t expecting me. His eyes—tired, dark—hit me hard. He’s still my everything, even after he threw me out, and I want him back so bad it hurts.
“Hey,” I say, stepping closer, my voice shaky but firm. “I need to talk to you.” I pull the papers out, clutching them tight, and set them on the counter. “This—it’s proof. Morgan’s doing this. Riley’s part of it.”
He frowns, slow, looking from me to the papers. “What are you talking about?” he asks, his tone flat, guarded. He doesn’t touch them, just stares, and it stings—he’s still keeping me out.
I push the papers closer, my hands sweaty. “Casey found it—Morgan’s emails, hidden stuff. He’s corrupt—paying people off, running the town dirty. And Riley—he told her to frame me, Alex. Look—‘Take care of Jamie.’ It’s right here.” I point to the line, circled in Casey’s pen, my finger shaking. “The emails, the money—it’s fake. They set me up to get to you.”
He picks up the paper, slow, like it might bite him, and reads. His face doesn’t change much—just tightens a little, eyes narrowing. I watch him, holding my breath, waiting for him to get it, to believe me. But he sets it down, too soon, and looks at me. “Casey hacked this?” he says, quiet. “How do I know it’s real?”
My stomach drops. “It’s real,” I say, fast, leaning in. “She got it from his private server—encrypted stuff. Morgan’s been after you—inspections, legal threats—it’s all him. Riley’s his tool, Alex—she’s been messing with me, breaking into my room, leaving notes. This proves it!”
He rubs his face, hard, like he’s tired of hearing me. “Jamie,” he says, slow, “this is a lot. Morgan—Riley—I don’t know. It’s still—” He stops, looking away, and I see it—doubt, eating at him, same as before. He’s hesitating, not jumping to me, and it cuts deep.
“Still what?” I ask, my voice rising. “You think I’m lying? After everything—cops, college, you kicking me out—you still don’t trust me?” My hands clench, nails digging in, and I step around the counter, closer to him. “Look at me, Alex—I didn’t do this. Morgan did, Riley did. They’re ruining us, and you’re letting them!”
He turns, finally meeting my eyes, but it’s not relief I see—it’s conflict, shadows I can’t reach. “I want to believe you,” he says, low, his voice cracking a little. “But it’s been so much—the evidence, the town, everything piling up. I don’t know what’s true anymore.”
My chest tightens, and I feel tears stinging, hot and angry. “Do you really think I could do this to you?” I say, my voice breaking, loud in the quiet store. “After you took me in, gave me a home—you think I’d cheat, lie, hurt you like that? Alex, please—I need you to see me!”
He flinches, like my words hit him, but he doesn’t move closer. His hands grip the counter, knuckles white, and he looks at me—really looks—but it’s torn, messy. I’m begging, spilling everything, and he’s just standing there, stuck. My heart’s breaking all over again—he’s not grabbing me, not saying he’s sorry. The doubt’s still there, chewing at him, and it’s killing me.
“Jamie,” he says finally, his voice soft, shaky. “I don’t know.” He looks away, down at the papers, then back at me, his eyes dark, conflicted.
I freeze, the words sinking in, heavy and cold. “I don’t know.” That’s all he’s got—after proof, after me pouring my soul out. I step back, my legs weak, staring at him—the man who was my world, still hesitating, still not mine.