Chapter 4: The Viral Storm

What happened?

I wish I knew.

The question circled in my mind like a hawk. I replayed every moment, every memory, trying to spot the crack where reality broke. Nothing made sense.

It was after two in the morning. I was boiling noodles in my shop—the water hadn’t even started bubbling yet—when the police showed up.

I’d stayed late to restock the walk-in fridge. The storefront was dark, save for the glow from my phone streaming an old Motown playlist. The noodles sat forgotten as the knock rattled the glass door, shattering the night’s peace.

A mother reported that, back in May, I molested her three-year-old daughter.

The accusation felt distant, almost unreal. May was a blur of graduations, Memorial Day cookouts, and late-night rushes at the shop. I racked my brain, searching for anything—any moment—that could’ve led to this.

After I finished telling the story, Derek asked, “Is this for real?”

His eyes searched mine, desperate for a crack, some hidden truth. I shook my head, helpless.

I was shocked. “Derek, you—”

My voice broke, a raw edge of betrayal in it. I’d never seen him look at me like that.

“No,” Derek explained awkwardly, “I’m not doubting you. I know what kind of person you are. I just mean, why did she pick you?”

He put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. “You’re the guy who gives free PB&J to hungry kids. This makes zero sense.”

“You tell me—how unfair is this?”

My hands flailed helplessly. I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a choked gasp. Derek just shook his head, angry and lost.

On the way to the station, all I could think was, ‘It’s over. I’m toast.’

I watched the city lights blur past the window, the world suddenly hostile. Every honking horn, every stranger on the sidewalk—it all felt pointed at me.

Even though I sympathized with the mother’s pain, and believed she was just acting out of panic—

I tried to imagine her world—raising a child alone, every day a battle. My anger wavered, replaced by a weird, aching pity. No one should have to feel that afraid for their kid.

After all, a single mom facing something like this can hardly keep a clear head.

I remembered my own mom, holding it together after Dad’s layoff, doing everything she could for us. Fear does weird things to people. But what about my fear? Who would believe me?

But I really didn’t do it.

I repeated it to myself like a mantra. I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t.

I don’t even know her.

Not more than a nod on the sidewalk, a polite smile in passing. We lived in the same neighborhood, but that was it. She was just another face in the crowd.

At most, since she moved here recently, I’d seen her twice in passing—never even spoke to her.

I could barely recall her name. Her kid played with others in the alley sometimes, their laughter floating through my open window as I prepped sandwiches for the lunch rush.

Her daughter had come to my shop a few times with other kids to play.

She’d toddled in with a handful of other toddlers, chasing my son, Caleb, and the Miller twins around the tables. They drew smiley faces in the foggy freezer glass. That was it.

How did it become me molesting her?

I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to block out the nightmare. Nothing made sense.

The cops checked the security footage from my shop.

A couple of them came in with a laptop, scanning every angle from the cheap cameras I’d installed myself last year after a string of bike thefts. I sat beside them, unable to breathe.

The mother claimed that between May 13 and May 18, while she was busy and couldn’t watch her child, I lured her daughter into the basement and molested her.

She’d circled the dates in red on a printout, waving it in the air. But I remembered those days—I’d been running a Memorial Day sandwich special, barely keeping my head above water.

But in the footage, her daughter did come to my shop one day and played with my kid for a while, then left. She never went to the basement at all.

The video showed her daughter laughing, chasing Caleb around the stools, drawing on the chalkboard wall. Not once did she—or anyone—go near the basement door. I exhaled for the first time in hours.

After watching the footage, the cops checked the cameras from nearby businesses. After working through most of the night, they confirmed I wasn’t a suspect and declined to open a case.

They called in the barbershop owner next door, checked his ring cam, even called the gas station across the street for their tapes. Nothing. By sunrise, their tone had changed—cautious, but not hostile. The case wasn’t moving forward.

When the officer said, “No case will be filed,” the mother’s expression changed dramatically. She shrieked, “He did it! He deleted the footage! If you don’t file a case, I’ll expose him and let everyone see the true face of this monster!”

She grabbed at her daughter, voice climbing an octave. The officers looked tired, clearly done for the night. I felt relief, but it was poisoned by the venom in her glare.

The cops sternly warned her that whether or not the footage had been deleted, they would bring in experts to analyze it, and that exposing someone online before the results came out would violate their rights and could be defamation, with legal consequences.

One officer leaned in, voice low but deadly serious: “Ma’am, what you’re talking about is a crime if it’s not true. We’re watching.” She hesitated, but didn’t back down.

Seeing the police stand firm, she realized she couldn’t make a scene anymore and stormed out of the station.

She scooped up her daughter and practically ran, leaving behind only the echo of her threats and a handful of tissues on the floor. I slumped against the wall, empty.

Before leaving, she threw a parting shot at me: “Just you wait. I won’t let you off easy!”

Her voice lingered long after she was gone. I felt the warning burn into my bones. Derek muttered a curse under his breath, but I just sat there, numb.