I’m sitting in the bookstore, the counter lamp glowing dim, Jamie’s words stuck in my head. “It was her, Alex. It was always her.” He’s upstairs now, patched up, sleeping off the blood loss from that cut on his arm. I cleaned it, wrapped it tight with a towel, my hands shaking the whole time, guilt eating me alive. He’s hurt, bad, because of Riley, because I didn’t believe him. His eyes, scared and sure, keep flashing back, cutting through the fog I’ve been in. I kicked him out, doubted him, let her twist me, and now he’s bleeding, nearly dead, and I can’t sit still anymore. I’ve got to find out, dig into what he said, see if she’s really behind it all.
The store’s quiet, rain gone, just the hum of the fridge in the back. I grab my laptop from under the counter, my fingers cold, and pull up old emails, stuff I’ve ignored for months. My chest’s tight, my breath short, guilt pushing me to move fast. I scroll, eyes blurry, looking for anything, Riley’s name, Morgan’s, something off. Most are junk, orders, bills, but then I spot it, an email from last year, Morgan to me, short and sharp. “Keep the kid in line, or we’ll handle it.” My stomach twists. Jamie was living here then, quiet, sketching, and Morgan’s words feel heavy now, like a warning I missed. I keep going, finding more, little notes from Riley, “Checking in,” “Heard Jamie’s slipping,” subtle digs piling up, and I never saw it, never thought she was building something against him.
I close the laptop, my hands sweaty, and head to the office, the floor creaking under my boots. The safe’s still empty, money gone, but I’ve got records, old papers stuffed in drawers, dusty and crumpled. I dig through them, my fingers smudging ink, pulling out receipts, logs, anything tied to her. My head’s spinning, Jamie’s voice, “She framed me,” loud in my ears, and I find a store log from months back, my handwriting, “Riley helped close, stayed late.” That night, cash was short, not much, but I let it go, trusted her. My hands shake, the paper crinkling, and I grab the CCTV drive, an old one I kept before the camera broke. I plug it into my laptop, my breath fast, and click through grainy clips, hours of nothing, shelves, the counter, me locking up.
Then I see her, Riley, late, alone, moving quick by the safe, her hoodie up, glancing around. My chest tightens, my eyes locked on the screen, she’s digging, pulling something, cash maybe, and slipping it into her bag. The timestamp matches, the night before Jamie’s stuff showed up, the receipt, the pen. I pause it, her face blurry but sure, and my stomach drops, hard. She took it, planted it, and I bought it, turned on him. Guilt hits me again, hot and heavy, my hands clenching the desk, the wood rough under my palms. I’ve been blind, stupid, and he’s paid for it, bleeding on my floor.
It’s not enough, I need more, something solid to connect it all. I grab my jacket, the one still stained with his blood, and head out, locking the store quiet behind me. The town’s asleep, streets dark, wet from the rain, and I walk fast, my boots splashing, my breath fogging in the cold. Riley’s places, spots she goes, I’ve got to watch, see her now, not the mask she wears with me. I start at the coffee shop, closed, lights off, but I stand across the street, under a tree, its branches dripping on my hood. She’s there some nights, late shifts, and I wait, my legs stiff, my hands stuffed in my pockets, the cut on my knuckle from moving Jamie stinging in the chill.
An hour passes, slow, my eyes burning, and she shows up, locking the shop door, her bag slung over her shoulder. She’s jumpy, looking around, her hood up, and my gut twists, she’s not calm, not sweet like she plays with me. She walks fast, head down, cutting through alleys, and I follow, quiet, keeping my distance, my boots soft on the pavement. She stops at the park, sits on a bench, her phone out, texting quick, her face tight in the glow. I hide behind a trash can, the metal cold on my hand, watching her mutter, pace, like she’s fraying, losing it. My heart’s pounding, Jamie’s words, “She’s crazy,” ringing true, and I see it, her edge, her danger.
I head back, late, the town darker, my legs aching, and slump in the office chair, my breath shaky. I dig again, deeper, old boxes under the desk, dust sticking to my fingers. Receipts, faded, yellow, spill out, and I sort them, slow, my eyes sore. Most are nothing, coffee runs, supplies, but then I find it, small, strange, a receipt from years ago, before Jamie, from a diner across town. My hands stop, my breath catching, it’s got two names scribbled on it, “Riley” and “Morgan,” dated the month I opened the store, a meeting, a link I never saw. My heart pounds, loud in the quiet, and I grip it, the paper trembling, something clicking, dark and real.