The police officers don’t wait for me to catch my breath. The one with the badge grabs my arm, pulling me toward the door. “Let’s go, kid,” he says, sharp and cold. I stumble, still staring at the exam answers they pulled from my backpack—papers I’ve never seen before. Alex steps forward, his voice loud behind me. “Wait, what’s happening? He didn’t do anything!” But they don’t stop. The second officer snaps handcuffs on my wrists, the metal biting into my skin. I flinch, my stomach twisting hard.
“Jamie!” Alex calls, but the door’s already shutting. They lead me out of the bookstore, and the cold morning air hits me like a slap. The town’s small—too small. People are already out, walking dogs or grabbing coffee, and they turn to stare. Old Mrs. Carter from the bakery stops dead, her mouth open. A guy I know from college, Tom, pulls out his phone, probably snapping a picture. My face burns, and I duck my head, the cuffs clinking as we move. The police car’s parked right in front, lights flashing slow, like they want everyone to see. I feel sick.
They shove me into the back seat, and I twist to look through the window. Alex is there, bursting out the door after us, his jacket half-on. “Where are you taking him?” he yells, but the car’s already moving. I press my face to the glass, watching him shrink as we pull away. He’s rattled—I can see it in how his hands shake, how his eyes dart around. But he’s coming after me. I know he is.
The station’s a short drive, just a few streets over, but it feels like forever. The officers don’t talk, just mutter into their radios. When we get there, they yank me out and march me inside. It’s all gray walls and buzzing lights, the kind of place that makes you feel small. They uncuff me long enough to sit me in a room—bare, with a table and two chairs. One officer leaves, the other stays, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. I rub my wrists, still feeling the metal.
A new guy comes in—taller, older, with a clipboard. “James Lawson,” he says, not looking up. “You’re in a mess. Academic fraud. Selling stolen exam answers. That ring a bell?”
I shake my head fast. “No. I didn’t do that. Those papers aren’t mine.”
He sits down, drops the clipboard on the table. “Funny, because we found them in your bag. Got a tip—anonymous. Emails too.” He slides a stack of papers toward me, printed out. I lean forward, squinting. They’re emails—sent from some random account, talking about selling answers. My name’s on them, clear as day: James Lawson, $5,000, meet at the library drop. My hands go cold.
“That’s not me,” I say, voice shaking. “I didn’t write those. Someone’s lying.”
He doesn’t blink. “And this?” He pulls out another paper—a bank deposit slip. It’s got my name on it, $5,000 dumped into an account I don’t even have. “Looks like you got paid. Nice little side gig.”
I stare at it, my head spinning. “I don’t have that money. I don’t even have a bank account like that! Check it—please, I’m telling the truth!”
The officer by the wall snorts. “We checked. Account’s real. Opened last week. Guess who’s listed?”
“No,” I whisper, sinking back. “That’s not possible. Someone set me up.” My mind’s racing—Riley’s face flashes in my head, her weird questions about Alex, how she kept watching us. But my notebook’s gone—did she find it? Is this her? I can’t say it out loud, not yet. They’d think I’m crazy.
The tall one leans in. “You got an explanation, kid? Because right now, it’s your word against this.” He taps the papers. “College says you’re suspended already. Cops are digging deeper. You’re looking at charges—serious ones.”
“I didn’t do it,” I say again, louder, but it sounds weak even to me. My chest hurts, like I can’t get enough air. They keep asking—where’d the answers come from, who’d I sell to, why’d I need the cash. I don’t have answers, just the same thing over and over: “It’s not mine.” They don’t believe me. I can see it in their eyes.
After what feels like hours, the tall one stands. “We’re done for now. You’re released—bail’s set. Don’t leave town.” He nods to the other guy, and they walk out, leaving me sitting there, hands shaking on the table. A woman in uniform comes in, tells me to follow her. My legs feel like jelly, but I get up. She leads me to the front, processes some papers, and then I’m free—for now.
I step outside, the air cold and sharp. The station’s steps are empty, just me and the buzz of the street. Then I see him—Alex, leaning against his truck across the lot. He’s here, like I knew he’d be. He followed me, just like he said he would. Relief hits me hard, and I start toward him, my shoes scuffing the pavement.
He straightens up as I get close, his jacket zipped tight against the wind. “Jamie,” he says, voice rough. “You okay?” He grabs my shoulder, pulls me in for a quick hug. It’s fast, but it’s enough—I can feel him shaking too. He’s rattled, same as me.
“Yeah,” I lie, nodding. “They let me go. For now.” My voice cracks, and I look away, scared he’ll see how bad it is.
He steps back, running a hand through his hair. “I talked to them,” he says. “Told them you’re no thief. They’ve got it wrong—I know you, Jamie. You wouldn’t do this.”
His words hit me like a punch. He’s defending me, sticking up for me, even after everything they showed him. I want to believe he means it, that he trusts me completely. “Thanks,” I mumble, staring at my feet. “I didn’t do it, Alex. I swear.”
“I know,” he says, quick, firm. “We’ll figure this out. Someone’s behind it—I’ll find out who.” He’s trying to sound strong, but his voice wavers, just a little. He’s confused, I can tell—those papers, the emails, they’re messing with his head too.
I nod, throat tight. The town’s watching us—I can feel it. People driving by slow down, heads turning. Word’s spreading already, probably all over by noon. Jamie Lawson, the kid in cuffs. I want to crawl into a hole and disappear.
Alex opens the truck door. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get home.” I climb in, sinking into the seat. He gets in too, starts the engine, and we pull out. The ride’s quiet, just the hum of the road. I keep my eyes out the window, watching the town blur past—streets I’ve known forever, now staring back like I’m a stranger.
When we get to the bookstore, he parks and turns to me. I look at him, waiting for something—reassurance, a plan, anything. He’s got that steady look he always has, the one that’s kept me going since the crash. But there’s something else too, something I can’t read. His face is blank, like he’s holding back. Is it doubt? Anger? I can’t tell, and it scares me more than the cuffs did.
He doesn’t say anything, just opens his door. I follow him out, my heart pounding, and we head inside. The bookstore’s dark, silent, waiting. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I know this isn’t over.