Chapter 2: Suspicions and Small-Town Shadows

After graduation, I’d always worked alone in Austin. My parents had long hoped I’d return to our small Ohio town, settle down, and keep them company. Friday night football games, summer fairs, Sunday church—none of it felt right without family close by.

Civil service exams are brutal these days. I spent a year cramming while working full-time, and finally, I passed. Even my friends in Austin couldn’t believe it. It felt like winning the lottery.

The job was perfect—government work near home, matched my major, solid benefits. Paid time off, a real pension, health insurance that actually covered more than a sore throat. My parents were thrilled.

I’ve always done things by the book. Our family’s reputation is squeaky clean. We just needed that background check to clear, and I’d be on to the medical exam—the job basically mine. Mom even picked out a new tie for my first day.

Just to be safe, I told my parents not to mention the exam to anyone. In a small town, gossip spreads faster than wildfire.

They kept quiet, never breathing a word—not at church, not even to Aunt Barb at bingo night.

You hear stories about people being sabotaged—relatives or old friends, jealous of your shot at something better. It’s the kind of thing people whisper about at the post office or in Facebook groups: someone’s cousin got stabbed in the back over a job.

Despite all our precautions, something still went wrong.

Was it a competitor’s smear, or did I tick someone off? Paranoia crept in, making me second-guess every conversation I’d had in the last year.

After submitting my appeal letter and evidence, I checked my email every ten minutes, jumping every time my phone buzzed. Every day, I hoped the truth would clear my name and I could get back in the hiring process.

Several anxious days passed, and finally the investigation team arrived. They drove up in a county car with the government seal on the door. The neighbors’ curtains twitched as the county car parked outside. Someone’s dog barked from two houses down, and I could feel the whole block watching.

Seeing hope, my parents, who’d been down for days, finally relaxed a little. Mom even made cinnamon rolls that morning, humming as she kneaded the dough.

I eagerly took the investigation team to see our neighbors and the neighborhood association, even video-called my previous company. I tried to look calm and trustworthy, shaking hands, straightening my tie, praying I looked innocent enough.

Everyone vouched for me, saying I was honest, always single, never seen with a kid. Mrs. Rodriguez next door even joked, “If Derek was sneaking around, I’d have caught him—my kitchen window sees everything!”

I figured that was it—the facts would clear me. I started picturing my parents’ relief, the dinner we’d celebrate with.

But the investigators didn’t say much, just scribbled in their notepads and avoided my eyes. "We still need to verify some other matters," one said, flipping pages.

I tried to comfort myself: the truth’s on my side. My mom squeezed my hand in the hallway. “It’ll be all right, honey. They’ll see.”

Maybe just a few more days. Dad handed me a glass of iced tea as the sun set, repeating his favorite line: good things come after hardship.

Five more anxious days passed. Then the official results landed in my inbox—and the real nightmare began.