I can’t let Jamie keep falling apart. Seeing him at the coffee shop yesterday—head down, eyes empty—lit a fire in me. He’s giving up, and I get it—Alex kicking him out, the town turning on him, no job—but I’m not done. He’s my best friend, and I know he’s innocent. Riley’s behind this, I’m sure, and Morgan’s helping her, but I need proof—something solid to pull Jamie out of this hole. So I start digging, real digging, not just guessing anymore. I’ve got skills—hacking, poking around online—and I’m using them.
After my shift at the coffee shop, I head home, lock my door, and pull out my laptop. The “evidence” against Jamie—those emails, the bank stuff, the exam answers—it’s all too perfect, too clean. I’ve been thinking about it for days, turning it over in my head. If it’s fake, there’s got to be a crack, something they missed. I start with what I can get—public stuff first. The college posted about his expulsion online, all vague but official-sounding. “Academic fraud,” “irrefutable proof”—blah, blah. That’s where the emails come in, the ones the cops and dean keep waving around. Jamie swears he didn’t send them, and I believe him. Time to prove it.
I’ve got a friend from school, Tim, who works IT for the college part-time. He owes me—helped him fix a busted laptop once—so I text him. “Need a favor,” I write. “Can you get me copies of those emails from Jamie’s case? Off the record.” He hesitates, sends back a nervous “Risky,” but I push. “Just this once, Tim. For a friend.” He caves, says he’ll sneak them from the admin server, send me a PDF. I wait, pacing my room, the hum of my laptop loud in the quiet. An hour later, my phone pings—file’s in my inbox. I grin, sit down, and open it.
There they are—five emails, supposed to be from Jamie’s account, sent to some random address about selling exam answers. Dates, times, subject lines—all laid out, neat and damning. I skim them first, my heart pounding. “Got the scans, $5K,” one says. “Drop-off at library, Wednesday,” says another. Jamie’s name’s all over them—sender, signature, everything. Looks bad, real bad. But I’m not here to freak out—I’m here to break it apart.
I start with the timestamps. Every email’s got one—when it was sent, down to the second. I pull up my calendar, cross-check the dates. First one’s from a Tuesday, 2:15 p.m. Second’s Wednesday, 9:42 a.m. I frown, thinking back. Jamie’s schedule last semester—he had psych class Tuesdays at two, with me. I remember—he was there, doodling in his notebook, not emailing anybody. I grab my old planner from a drawer, flip to that week. Yep—class, 2 to 3:30. No way he sent that email, not unless he’s got magic fingers and a secret phone I never saw.
I dig deeper, zooming in on the file. The timestamps—something’s off. The Wednesday one, 9:42 a.m.—he had English then, I’m pretty sure. I text him quick, “You had English last semester, Wednesday mornings, right?” He replies slow, “Yeah, 9 to 10:30. Why?” I don’t answer yet, just keep going. Two emails sent when he was in class, no phone out—professors were strict about that. I lean back, my mind racing. This isn’t right—nobody saw him typing, and he’s not that sneaky.
I check the headers next—tech stuff Tim showed me once. Buried in the email code, there’s info—server stamps, send times. I’m no expert, but I spot it fast—the “sent” times don’t match the server logs. The Tuesday email says 2:15 p.m., but the server stamp’s 4:37 p.m.—hours later. Wednesday’s 9:42 a.m., but the log says 11:19 a.m. My pulse jumps. They’re faked—someone sent them after, messed with the times to pin it on Jamie. Riley—she’s got to be behind this. She’s slick, but not slick enough.
I print the pages, circle the mismatches with a pen, my hands shaky. This is it—proof something’s wrong. Not airtight yet, but a start—a crack in their perfect little lie. I grab my jacket, stuff the papers in my bag, and head to Sam’s. It’s late, dark out, but I don’t care—Jamie needs to see this now. I bang on the door, loud, and he opens it, bleary-eyed, hair a mess.
“Casey?” he says, rubbing his face. “What’s up?”
I push past him, dropping my bag on the floor. “I found something,” I say, pulling out the papers. “Look—the emails they used against you. The times are off.”
He frowns, taking them slow. “Off how?” His voice is flat, like he’s too tired to hope.
I point to the circles. “See? Tuesday, 2:15—you were in psych with me. Wednesday, 9:42—English. No way you sent these. The server times don’t match—they’re fake, Jamie.”
He stares, quiet, his eyes flicking over the lines. I wait, holding my breath, watching him wake up a little. “Jamie, this doesn’t add up,” I say, sharp, cutting the silence.