I’m still reeling from showing Alex the proof—Casey’s papers, Morgan’s emails, Riley’s name in black and white. He didn’t believe me, not fully, just stared and said, “I don’t know.” It’s eating at me, his doubt, but I’ve got no time to sit on it. Casey’s digging deeper, and I’m trying to hold it together, figure out our next move. I spend the day out—walking, thinking, avoiding Sam’s place till I can breathe again. The town’s quiet, gray sky pressing down, and my legs ache by late afternoon. I head back, hood up, hands in my pockets, hoping Sam’s still at the garage so I can crash alone.
I unlock the door, step inside, and drop my bag by the couch. The house feels off—too still, like the air’s holding its breath. Sam’s truck isn’t out front—he’s not home yet—but something’s wrong. I shake it off, head down the hall to my room, and push the door open. My heart stops. It’s trashed—everything’s a mess, like a storm ripped through. The bed’s flipped, mattress half off, blanket shredded. My desk is tipped over, drawers yanked out, papers scattered on the floor. My stomach twists, and I step in slow, my shoes crunching on broken stuff—pens, a cracked mug, junk I kept in the drawer.
I look around, my chest tight, and see my sketches—new ones I started after losing my notebook. They’re everywhere, torn apart, pieces littering the floor. I bend down, hands shaky, and pick one up—a rough drawing of Alex, his face scratched out with big red Xs, ink bleeding through the paper. My breath catches, and I grab another—same thing, Alex’s eyes crossed out, red lines slashing his smile. They’re mine—my sketches—but someone’s ruined them, marked them up like a threat. My knees wobble, and I drop the paper, my hands cold. This isn’t random—someone’s been here, sending a message.
I spin around, checking the room, my pulse loud in my ears. The window—it’s unlocked again, wide open this time, cold air blowing in. Mud’s smeared on the sill, fresh tracks in the dirt outside. They climbed in—same as before, but worse now. I stumble to the desk, kicking through the mess, looking for Casey’s papers—the IP proof, Morgan’s emails. They’re gone—ripped from under my pillow where I hid them. My stomach drops—they’ve got it, took it, left me with nothing but this wreck.
I turn, my legs shaky, and that’s when I see it—pinned to the wall above the bed, a knife stabbed through the paper into the wood. A note, short and sharp: “STOP DIGGING,” all caps, black ink, screaming at me. My breath stops, and I stare, the words cutting deep. It’s Riley—or Morgan—someone who knows I’m fighting back, knows Casey’s helping. The red Xs, the knife—it’s a warning, loud and clear. Stop, or else. My hands tremble, and I back up, bumping the desk, my mind racing. They trashed my room, tore up Alex, took my proof—they’re scared, but they’re hitting hard.
I grab the wall, steadying myself, my chest heaving. Riley’s face flashes—her smirk, her notes, that sketch in red ink. She’s losing it, or Morgan’s pushing her, and now this. My sketches—Alex—they’re personal, like she’s slashing at him to get to me. I sink to the floor, papers crunching under me, and stare at the mess. Everything’s gone—my room, my proof, my fight. I’ve got nothing left, and they’re telling me to quit. My throat burns, tears stinging, but I don’t cry—I’m too mad, too scared.
Footsteps thud behind me, heavy and quick. I jump, spinning around, and Sam’s in the doorway, his work boots dirty, face hard. He stops, staring at the wreck—bed flipped, sketches torn, knife in the wall. His eyes narrow, taking it in, and I freeze, waiting. He’s quiet—always is—but this is different, heavy. I clutch a torn sketch, my hands sweaty, and look at him, my voice stuck.
Sam steps in, slow, his boots loud on the wood. He scans the room, then the note—“STOP DIGGING”—and his jaw tightens. He doesn’t say much, never does, but I see it—he’s mad, worried, something. I’m shaking, my breath fast, and he finally looks at me, eyes dark. “What the hell did you get yourself into?” he murmurs, low, rough, standing there like a wall.
I stand frozen, the sketch slipping from my hand, his words hanging in the air. I don’t know what to say—Riley, Morgan, Alex—it’s too big, and I’m caught in it, no way out.
Sam’s gaze flickers over the wreckage again. His fists ball at his sides, and for a second, I think he might just lose it, lash out at whoever did this. I watch him, heart pounding, hoping he’ll have some kind of answer, something to fix this, to make it right. But nothing comes. He stays quiet, his face set in that hard, unreadable way he always wears when he’s pissed.
“Didn’t think it’d go this far,” he mutters, almost to himself, looking down at the mess as though trying to make sense of it. He shakes his head slowly, then looks at me. “You’re not in this alone, Jamie. Whatever’s going on, we’re gonna deal with it. You got me?”
I nod, but the pit in my stomach doesn’t ease. I don’t want Sam involved in this. Not like this. Riley, Morgan—they’re dangerous, and Sam’s not someone who needs to get dragged into that world. But I can’t deny the weight in my chest, the way my body tenses at the thought of being alone in this fight. Maybe I do need him, maybe I can’t do it all on my own.
“I—I didn’t know what to do,” I whisper, my voice cracked, raw. “I thought if I could prove it—if I could show Alex everything… But he didn’t believe me. And now they’ve—” I gesture to the wreckage. “Now they’ve taken it all. Everything. They don’t want me to keep going.”
Sam steps forward, careful not to step on any of the broken pieces. He kneels beside me, his large hand on my shoulder. “You’ve gotta keep going,” he says quietly. “Don’t stop now. We’ll find a way to make it right. We’ll get it back.”
But I’m not sure. I’m not sure how to get it back. And I’m not sure if I even have the strength left to keep fighting. The knife, the words—they feel like more than a warning. It feels like a threat, one I’m not sure I can outrun.
“I can’t stop,” I whisper. “I won’t.”
Sam just nods, his eyes fierce with determination. He doesn’t need to say anything else. We both know what needs to be done.
But deep down, I know this war’s only just begun. And it’s not going to end quietly.