The bookstore’s been a mess since the theft, with money gone and cops hauling Jamie out, his voice still ringing in my ears. “You know me!” he yelled, and I just stood there, frozen, letting them take him. I’ve been numb since, moving slow, stacking books, avoiding the office where it happened. Riley’s calls keep coming, leaving voicemails that are weird and shaky, saying Jamie’s watching me, lying to me. I listen, but they sit funny now, piling up with her hints, her tears. Jamie’s cuffed again, the town’s colder than ever, and I’m stuck, doubting everything—him, her, me.
It’s late, past closing, and rain is tapping the windows. I’m alone, the store dark except for my lamp. I can’t sleep upstairs, not with Riley’s words buzzing in my head, not with Jamie’s face—red, begging—stuck in my mind. I wander to the office, my boots heavy on the wood, needing something to do. The safe’s still empty, the receipt and pen gone with the cops, but papers are scattered everywhere—bills, orders, junk I’ve let pile up. I slump in the chair, rubbing my face, and start sorting, slow, just to keep my hands busy. My chest’s tight from Morgan’s threats, the missing cash, and Jamie—it’s all too much, and I’m cracking under it.
I grab a stack of old stuff shoved in a drawer and flip through it. Invoices, notes, nothing big, but then a page slips out—yellowed, edges curled. It’s a security log, handwritten, from the old camera I had out front before it broke. I forgot about it—stopped checking it months ago, but I kept the logs, a habit from when I first started. My hands slow, my eyes scanning—dates, times, and scribbled notes of who came in. I flip back, looking for the night Riley said Jamie harassed her, banged on her dorm door, and scared her stiff. She called me, crying, and I believed her, adding it to the pile against him. My fingers shake as I find it—two months ago, a Tuesday, late.
The log’s clear—9 p.m., “Store locked, me upstairs.” 10 p.m., “Quiet, no one around.” 11 p.m., “Checked door, all good.” My handwriting, messy but sure—I was here, alone, that whole night. Jamie wasn’t—he lived upstairs then, but the log says he left earlier, at 7 p.m., “Out with Casey.” I stare, my breath catching—he wasn’t here, not when Riley said he was losing it, not when she swore he came after her. My head spins, and I check again—same night, same hours, no Jamie. She lied, straight up, to my face—and I believed her, turned on him.
I lean back, the paper crinkling in my hand, my heart thumping loud. If she lied about that, what else? The theft, his receipt, his pen sudden and neat, right after he showed me Morgan’s emails. Riley’s been close—too close—checking in, pushing me to doubt him. Her voicemails—twisted, saying he’s stalking me—feel off now, desperate. I grab my phone and pull up the logs—three from last night, her voice shaky, “He’s watching you, don’t trust him.” But Jamie’s locked up—bailed out this morning, not free then. Another lie, piling up, and it’s hitting me hard—I’ve been blind, swallowing her words, pushing him away.
My hands shake, the log trembling in my grip, and I set it down, staring at it. Jamie’s voice, “You know me,” cuts through, raw and pleading, from yesterday. I do know him—three years, him upstairs, quiet, sketching, helping me. Not a thief, not a liar—not the Jamie I raised. But I doubted him—kicked him out, let the cops take him—because of Riley, because of evidence that’s looking flimsy now. The safe, the money—her tears sold it, but this log, this proof he wasn’t here—it’s cracking that wide open. My stomach twists—I’ve been wrong, so wrong, and he’s paying for it.
I stand, slow, my legs shaky, and pace the office with the log in my hand. Morgan’s emails—Jamie said Riley’s in on it, framing him—and I brushed it off. But now, her lies, her push—it’s lining up, dark and clear. She’s been playing me, twisting things, and I let her, turned my back on him. My chest hurts, guilt sinking in—he begged me to see him, and I didn’t. I stood there, silent, while they cuffed him. The town’s against him, colder every day, and I’ve been part of it, doubting, letting Riley pull me away.
I stop, gripping the paper tight, my knuckles white. My heart’s pounding, fast and hard, like it’s waking up. This log—it’s small, old, but it’s real. Jamie wasn’t here, didn’t do what she said. It’s proof, a piece I can hold, and it’s screaming that I’ve messed up. Riley’s face—soft, worried—flashes, but it’s sour now, fake. Jamie’s—tears, yelling that he wouldn’t hurt me—it’s all I see, and it’s breaking me. I’ve been wrong—about him, about her—and he’s alone, fighting, while I’ve been hiding here, blind.
I clutch the log, my breath short, and whisper, “I was wrong,” the words slipping out, quiet but heavy, shaking in the dark.