I’m in the bookstore office, staring at the empty safe, when the day flips upside down. The money’s gone—hundreds, maybe a grand, all I had to keep this place afloat. I found it this morning—safe popped open, receipt on the floor, Jamie’s name scribbled on it in his messy handwriting. A pen too—his, one I’ve seen him use a hundred times, lying there like he dropped it. My head’s spinning—Riley’s been hinting at him, saying he’s trouble, and now this. I called the cops, hands shaky, not sure what else to do. Morgan’s inspections, legal threats—I’m drowning, and now theft? It’s too much, and Jamie’s name keeps coming up.
The bell jingles out front, sharp and loud, pulling me from the mess. I step out, wiping my hands on my jeans, and freeze. Two cops are there, big guys in dark uniforms, dragging Jamie through the door. His wrists are cuffed, his hoodie bunched up, and he’s fighting—twisting, pulling, his face red. “Let me go!” he yells, voice raw, echoing off the shelves. My stomach drops—he’s here, caught again, and I’m stuck watching, my feet glued to the floor.
“James Lawson,” one cop says, firm, shoving him toward the counter. “You’re under arrest—suspected theft from this store.” He nods at me, like I’m part of this, and I flinch. Theft—my money, Jamie’s name on that receipt. It’s hitting hard, and I can’t breathe right.
Jamie sees me, his eyes wide, locking on mine. “Alex!” he shouts, pulling against the cuffs. “Tell them—tell them I didn’t do this!” His voice cracks, desperate, and it cuts me deep. He’s scared, mad, looking at me like I’m his last hope. I step closer, slow, my hands shaky, not sure what to say. The cops hold him tight, one grabbing his arm, the other watching me.
“Found evidence,” the second cop says, pulling a bag from his pocket—plastic, with the receipt and pen inside. “His name, his stuff—right where the money was. You reported it missing, right?” He looks at me, waiting, and I nod, slow, my throat tight. “Yeah,” I mutter, barely loud enough. “It’s gone.”
Jamie jerks forward, the cuffs clinking. “I didn’t take it!” he yells, his voice breaking. “Alex, you know me—you KNOW I wouldn’t do this!” He’s staring at me, eyes wet, begging, and it’s tearing me apart. His face—red, twisted, the kid I pulled from the wreck three years ago—it’s him, but now he’s here, cuffed, accused again. I want to believe him—deep down, I do—but the receipt, the pen, Riley’s warnings—they’re loud, screaming he’s guilty.
I stand there, my chest tight, watching him fight. The cops pull him back, firm, but he keeps yelling. “It’s Riley—she’s doing this! Morgan too—check the proof I showed you!” His voice is raw, echoing, and people outside are staring through the glass, whispering. The town’s already cold—expulsion, rumors—and now this, stealing from me. It’s piling up, heavy, and I feel it—eyes on us, judging him, judging me for letting him in.
“Calm down,” the first cop snaps, yanking Jamie’s arm. “You’re coming with us—evidence doesn’t lie.” Jamie twists, desperate, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “Alex—please! You know me!” he shouts again, loud, breaking through the noise in my head. I flinch, my hands clenching, and step closer, close enough to see the tears on his cheeks.
I want to say something—stop them, tell them he’s right—but my mouth’s dry, stuck. Riley’s voice—soft, scared—keeps creeping in. “He’s harassing me, losing it,” she said, and now this—money gone, his name everywhere. But Jamie’s here, begging, the kid I raised, and I’m torn. Those papers he showed—Morgan’s emails, Riley’s name—I pushed them away, doubted him, but they’re nagging me now. What if he’s telling the truth? What if I’ve been wrong—again?
The cops start pulling him toward the door, and he fights harder, his boots scraping the floor. “Alex!” he yells, one last time, his voice cracking, raw, like it’s ripping out of him. “Don’t let them do this—you know me!” It hits me like a punch, straight to the gut, and I feel sick. I do know him—or I did. Three years, him upstairs, sketching, helping me—quiet, good Jamie. Not this—not a thief, not a liar. But the evidence, Riley’s tears, Morgan’s pressure—it’s all there, loud, and I’m drowning in it.
I step back, my hands shaky, watching them drag him out. The bell jingles again, harsh, as they shove him through the door. He’s still yelling—“You know me!”—his voice fading as they haul him to the car. People outside stare, heads shaking, and I feel it—the town turning, colder than ever, writing him off. I’m stuck, my heart pounding, torn both ways. Riley’s been close—too close—hinting at this, and now it’s real. But Jamie’s eyes—wild, pleading—they’re burning into me, and I can’t shake them.
The store’s quiet again, just me and the mess—empty safe, scattered books, his voice echoing. I slump against the counter, my head in my hands, trying to think. He’s gone—cuffed, taken—and I’m here, watching, doing nothing. I want to believe him—part of me does—but the doubt’s heavy, pulling me down. Riley’s words, that receipt, the pen—it’s too much, and I’m lost. I lower my gaze, staring at the floor, my breath shaky, unable to answer him, unable to move.