I’m back at the bookstore that night, still wired from the day. Riley’s weird question about Alex keeps buzzing in my head, but it’s my notebook that’s got me messed up. I can’t find it. I set my backpack down in my room, unzip it, and dig through—pens, books, loose papers, but no notebook. My stomach drops. I check again, slower this time, pulling everything out. Nothing. It’s gone.
I try to think back—when did I last have it? The library. I was sketching there, got distracted, rushed out to meet Alex. Did I leave it? I can’t breathe right thinking about it. That notebook’s got everything—sketches of Alex, words I’d never say out loud. If someone found it, I’m done. I head downstairs, quiet so Alex doesn’t hear, and start searching the bookstore. Maybe I dropped it here, not there. I check under the counter, behind the shelves, even the trash bin. Nothing. My hands shake as I move a stack of old magazines—still nothing.
Footsteps creak behind me. I freeze. Alex steps out from the back room, rubbing his eyes. “Jamie? What’re you doing?” he asks, voice rough from sleep. He’s in a faded T-shirt, hair messy, looking at me like I’m nuts.
I straighten up fast, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Uh, just looking for something,” I say, trying to sound normal. My throat’s tight, and I can feel my face heating up.
He frowns, stepping closer. “What’s wrong? You’re tearing the place apart.” His eyes search mine, worried, and it makes me feel worse.
“It’s nothing,” I lie, brushing it off. “Just lost a pen or something. No big deal.” I force a smile, but it feels fake. He doesn’t push, just nods slow, like he’s not sure he buys it. The air between us feels heavy, strained, and I hate it. He’s been my rock for three years, and now I’m lying to him over something I can’t explain.
“Alright,” he says, soft. “Don’t stay up too late.” He heads back upstairs, and I’m left standing there, heart pounding. I don’t keep looking—can’t risk him coming back. But the panic’s still there, quiet and sharp, chewing at me. That notebook’s out there somewhere, and I don’t know who’s got it.
Later, we’re shelving books. It’s slow tonight, just the two of us, the store quiet except for the hum of the heater. Alex hands me a stack of paperbacks, and we work side by side, not talking much. I like these moments—him close, the world small and safe. But tonight, it’s off. I keep thinking about the notebook, about what it’d mean if he saw it. My sketches, my secrets. I’d lose him.
He stops, wiping dust off his hands, and looks at me. “You’re quiet,” he says, voice gentle. “More than usual.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, warm and steady, and my chest tightens.
I swallow hard, staring at the shelf. “Just tired,” I mumble. Another lie. He squeezes my shoulder, light, and I can feel his eyes on me.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” he says, low, like he really means it. I nod, throat so tight I can’t speak. I want to tell him—about the notebook, the mess in my head—but I can’t. Not this.
“Yeah,” I manage, barely a whisper. He lets go, nods back, and we finish shelving in silence. When he heads upstairs, I stay down, leaning against the counter. The weight of it all presses on me—my secret, the missing notebook, the lie I just told. It’s too much, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Next morning, I’m up early. Sun’s barely out, gray light creeping through the windows. I grab my backpack from my room, slinging it over my shoulder. I’ve got class soon—maybe I can check the library, see if my notebook’s still there. I’m halfway down the stairs when a sharp knock cuts through the quiet. It’s loud, hard, not normal. I stop, frowning. Who’s here this early?
The door swings open before I can move. Two police officers step in, big guys in dark uniforms. One flashes a badge, the other a piece of paper—a warrant. “James Lawson?” the first one says, voice flat. “You’re under investigation for academic fraud.”
My stomach drops straight to the floor. “What?” I choke out, gripping the railing. Alex stumbles down behind me, still in pajamas, hair wild. He looks half-asleep, confused.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice rough. The officers don’t answer him—they push past me, heading for my stuff. The second one grabs my backpack off my shoulder, unzips it fast, and dumps it out right there on the counter. Books, pens, papers spill everywhere. Then he pulls something else out—a stack of papers, folded tight, not mine.
He unfolds them, holds them up. “Exam answers,” he says, cold. “Stolen from the college. Found in your bag, kid.”
I stare, my brain blank. “That’s not mine,” I say, loud, panicked. “I didn’t put that there!” My voice cracks, but they don’t care. Alex steps closer, looking from the papers to me, his face pale.
“Jamie?” he says, quiet, like he’s not sure what to believe. I shake my head, fast.
“I don’t know how that got there,” I say, begging him with my eyes to trust me. “I swear, Alex, I didn’t—”
The officer cuts me off. “We’ll need you to come with us,” he says, folding the papers back up. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
I can’t move, can’t think. Those aren’t mine. I’ve never seen them before. But they’re in my bag, and the cops are staring at me like I’m guilty. Alex just stands there, bleary-eyed, watching, and I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know how this happened.