Chapter 1: Framed, Broken, and Betrayed

Before the SAT, my son was accused of being a creep by a girl in his class. It wasn’t just a rumor—it got him kicked out of school, and his early admission was gone, just like that.

The day the news hit, I was standing in our cramped kitchen, apron still on, the faint smell of the shop clinging to me. Mason’s hands were shaking as he clutched the expulsion letter, his knuckles white, his face so pale. His eyes were rimmed red, and with every word he read, I watched the hope drain out of him. Was this really happening? How could everything we’d dreamed about—those late-night talks over burgers and fries—just vanish? It was like watching a light go out, one flicker at a time. I wanted to grab him, to fix it, but all I could do was stand there and watch.

In his despair, he did the unthinkable—he hanged himself on campus. God, I still can’t believe it. No. This couldn’t be real. Please, let it not be true.

I can still see the outline of his sneakers dangling in the gym’s shadowy rafters every time I close my eyes. That image haunts me. No parent should ever walk those halls, hearing the echo of their child’s last footsteps. It’s a nightmare you can’t wake up from. The grief—it hollowed me out. Left nothing but ache.

I made up my mind to confront them. But as I reached their apartment, I hesitated outside the door, heart racing. That’s when I overheard their conversation through the thin wood.

I stood there in the musty hallway, fists balled so tight my nails dug into my palms. My heart was pounding—seriously, I thought my heart might give me away. The Taylors’ place was on the third floor: cheap carpet, peeling paint, the kind of place where every argument leaks through the walls. I pressed my ear to the door, barely breathing, desperate for answers.

"There’s only one early admission slot! Mason Grant just won first prize at the state math competition! I mean, what else was I supposed to do? If we don’t ruin his reputation, how am I supposed to get that spot?"

The girl’s voice was sharp, impatient—Brianna Taylor, the golden child. I knew that tone from PTA meetings, from the way her parents always beamed at her trophies lined up on the mantel. Her words made me sick.

"I just wanted him expelled. He went and hanged himself. That’s on him, not me."

There was a pause. God, that silence. The kind that feels heavy, like everyone in the room knows they’ve crossed a line but no one wants to say it out loud. I could almost see Brianna rolling her eyes, brushing off a boy’s life like it was nothing more than a bad grade.

"Mom, relax! His dad’s just a butcher. He can’t do anything to us."

Behind the security door, Brianna Taylor’s voice was cold, dripping with contempt. Like my son’s life meant no more than a stray cat or dog.

I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. The casual cruelty in her words made my hands shake. God, how could they be so heartless? People like us—people who work with their hands, sweat for every dollar—we didn’t count for much. Mason was invisible to them. Disposable. Why did it have to be my son?

You know what really got me? The truth behind that whole so-called pervert thing.

It turned out Mason hadn’t lied. He was framed by Brianna, and it cost him his life. The unfairness of it all—it hit me again, sharp and cold.

Rage. Hot and bitter. All those times Mason tried to tell me he was innocent, his voice cracking, begging me to believe him—I did believe him. But it didn’t matter. The world had already decided.

In that instant, I wanted to scream, to break something, to do anything to make them pay. I felt like I might explode.

I pressed my forehead against the door, fighting the urge to kick it down. I swear, it took everything I had not to kick that door down. My fingers itched to grab something, anything, and smash it to pieces. But I knew, deep down, it wouldn’t bring Mason back. The helplessness was suffocating, thick as mud.

But this is America. There are laws. If I killed someone, I’d spend the rest of my life in prison, and Mason’s funeral hadn’t even been arranged. I had to swallow my grief, open my phone with trembling hands, and get ready to record their conversation for the police.

My thumb hovered over the record button. I hesitated. What if I missed something? My whole body shook—anger, grief, adrenaline all tangled together. Breathe. Focus. Do what Mason would’ve wanted: fight the right way. Even if my hands were still stained with blood from the shop, I was determined to see this through.

And then, just like that, the voices stopped.

The apartment went eerily silent. My heart skipped a beat. I pressed myself flat against the wall, barely daring to breathe. What now?

A series of footsteps approached the door. I tensed, every muscle in my body tight, waiting for the next move.

The thud of footsteps grew louder, closer—heels clacking against laminate, the squeak of sneakers. Someone was fumbling with the deadbolt. I held my breath.

And then, from inside—a middle-aged woman’s voice echoed, sharp and commanding.

"Enough! What’s done is done. From now on, no matter—"

Her voice was clipped, tense—the kind of tone you hear from someone used to getting her way. Lisa Taylor, no doubt. I could picture her: lips pursed, eyes narrowed, always the queen bee at the school fundraisers. Always in control.

Before she could finish, the door swung open. My pulse jumped.

I barely had time to straighten up before the door yanked open, light spilling out into the dim hallway. For a split second, I wondered what I must look like—wild-eyed, fists clenched, grief carved into every line of my face.

Brianna’s mother, Lisa Taylor, saw me and shrieked, "Mark Grant, what are you doing here?" Her voice cracked through the air.

Her voice hit a pitch I didn’t think was possible—shrill, panicked, almost cartoonish. She clutched her pearls, staring at me like I was some kind of monster, as if the butcher from down the street was suddenly a threat to her perfect little world. God, the drama.

She panicked and tried to slam the door shut, but I wedged my foot in and pushed my way inside. I wasn’t leaving. Not now.

The door slammed against my boot with a dull thud. For a second, I just stood there, the living room pristine—white couches, shiny surfaces, not a thing out of place. So different from our cluttered home. Everyone froze, eyes wide.

Lisa’s face twisted with fear. She snatched a vase from the table and waved it around like she thought it was a baseball bat.

"Mark Grant, what do you want? Breaking into someone’s home is a crime!"

Her hands shook as she brandished the vase like a weapon. For a second, I saw fear in her eyes—but also something else. Guilt? Or just the panic of someone about to lose control?

"A crime?" I laughed, bitter. "When your daughter ruined my son’s life, did you care about the law then?"

My voice was rough, almost unrecognizable. It sounded like someone else, all gravel and pain. I could feel the bitterness rising up, years of being dismissed and ignored boiling over. The hypocrisy was almost too much.

Brianna leapt up from the couch—face pale, clutching her phone, threatening to call the police. She looked like she might bolt at any second.

"Don’t do anything crazy! I’ll call the cops and have you arrested!" she stammered. Yeah, right.

Hearing her threaten me with the police, I finally snapped. Something inside me broke.

"Call them! Go ahead! I heard everything you said!"

My voice echoed off the walls, raw and desperate. Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole damn building know what they’d done. I didn’t care anymore.

"It was you who framed my son to steal his spot!"

"Your one lie turned my son into the school pariah, got him expelled, and finally… finally drove him to hang himself in the gym…"

My voice cracked, grief catching in my throat. The words barely made it out. I could feel tears burning in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not in front of these people. Not here.

Just thinking of the bloody message Mason left before he died—I couldn’t hold back my tears. They came, hot and fast, no matter how hard I tried to fight them.

The image flashed in my mind: jagged letters, shaky and desperate, smeared in blood on the gym wall. It was seared into my memory. The pain of it threatened to swallow me whole. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to pull myself together.

"Do you know what Mason wrote on the wall in his own blood before he died?" I said, voice barely above a whisper. It was all I could do to get the words out.

My voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the room like a knife. Every head turned. The air felt thick.

He wrote—'I never touched her!'

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. I saw Brianna flinch. For a split second, her mask slipped.

I pulled out my phone and showed the police photo of the scene, my voice hoarse. "Those words were scrawled by Mason himself, with his own finger!" I wanted them to see. To really see.

I fumbled with my phone, hands shaking so badly I almost dropped it. God, I nearly lost it. The photo was blurry, but you could make out the desperate message, the blood smeared across the wall. I shoved it in Brianna’s face, daring her to look away.

"Now, looking at this photo, say it again—did my son really touch you?" My voice was cold, deadly calm. I took another step closer. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with tension.

I held the phone right in front of Brianna’s face, stepping closer and closer. I wasn’t backing down. Not now.

She shrank back, her eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. For the first time, I saw real fear in her. She was cornered, and she knew it.

She backed away, shaking, lips trembling, unable to speak. Not so tough now, huh?

"Say it!" I roared, jabbing the photo toward her.

The force of my anger startled even me. The shout bounced off the walls, making the whole place feel even smaller. For a heartbeat, I thought she’d finally confess.

But before I could continue, someone struck me hard on the back of the head. Everything spun. I blacked out.

A blinding pain exploded in my skull. My knees buckled, the world tilting sideways. The last thing I saw was Lisa’s face—twisted with fear and rage—before everything went dark.

When I woke, I was handcuffed to a hospital bed, two police officers sitting beside me—the same ones who’d handled Mason’s suicide. Déjà vu. Only colder.

The room was cold, the sheets scratchy against my skin. My head throbbed with every heartbeat. I shivered. The metallic clink of the handcuffs felt like a sick joke—first my son, now me, both trapped by someone else’s lies.

When they saw I was awake, they immediately came over. No time to gather myself. No time to think.

Their uniforms looked sharper than I remembered. Faces hard, unreadable. I knew right away—this wasn’t going to go my way.

"Mark Grant, what were you thinking? I know your son died, and you’re upset, but breaking into someone’s home and seeking revenge is a crime! You know that, right?"

Officer Daniels’ voice was clipped, all business. Didn’t even bother to look me in the eye. It stung. But what hurt more was the emptiness—like Mason’s death was just another statistic.

Seeing the police blame me without even asking any questions, not caring about right or wrong, I lost it again. I rattled the cuffs, making a loud clanging sound. Was anyone listening?

The sound echoed through the sterile room, sharp and jarring. I wanted them to feel a fraction of the chaos inside me. This wasn’t just about breaking a law. This was about a broken life.

"Breaking in? Revenge? I was demanding justice!"

"My son was framed by Brianna Taylor! He never touched her!"

"I heard their whole conversation! Brianna admitted she set him up for that early admission slot!"

My words tumbled out, desperate and raw. My voice was ragged, rising with every word. Let them call me crazy. At least I was telling the truth.

But the two officers just looked at each other. They didn’t say a word. That silence was louder than anything.

Officer Daniels, who’d handled Mason’s case before, said coldly,

"Where’s the proof? Do you have any evidence?"

His tone was flat, dismissive. He didn’t care about my pain—just wanted something neat and tidy for his file. Evidence. As if the truth was just a file on a desk.

I was speechless. What could I say? I’d missed my chance.

Because I hadn’t had time to record it. God, why didn’t I move faster? Why did I hesitate?

Officer Daniels said, "I get that you’re hurting, but if you don’t have evidence, don’t make accusations. Now, let’s talk about your situation."

He sounded almost bored, like this was just another box to check before lunch. The injustice of it made my blood boil. Did he even care?

"What situation?" I spat. What now?

Officer Daniels said, "They’re accusing you of breaking and entering and seeking revenge. But considering what you’ve been through, let me ask—are you willing to accept mediation?"

"Mediation?" Hearing that word again, I laughed in despair. It sounded ridiculous. Mediation for this?

The word tasted bitter in my mouth. Mediation—like this was just a playground fight, not a boy’s life destroyed. I let out a harsh, humorless laugh that bounced off the hospital walls.

Before, they’d come to me with mediation—said the Taylor family would pay some funeral expenses out of kindness. But they never mentioned the bloody message my son left behind! It was all about sweeping it under the rug.

The memory of that first meeting stung. Lisa Taylor’s fake sympathy. The officers’ awkward glances. Everyone just wanting this to go away. Nobody cared about Mason’s last words. They just wanted it buried.

They weren’t even willing to investigate, to see if Mason had been wronged! Not even a real look. Just paperwork and platitudes.

The anger inside me simmered. Hot. Close to boiling. I wanted to grab them by the collars and shake them until they listened. Why won’t anyone care?