Chapter 2: Accusation and Fallout

By the time my friend arrived, I had just finished giving my statement.

He came barreling in, hair still a mess, sweatshirt thrown over pajama pants, face pale with worry. Derek always made chaos look normal, but tonight even he looked shaken. He pressed a hand to my shoulder, searching my face, silent but solid beside me. The fluorescent lights made us both look older than we were.

Down the hallway, the mother was clutching her daughter, sobbing uncontrollably.

Her crying echoed down the linoleum corridor, sharp and raw. Her mascara ran in dark streaks, and the little girl, all tangled hair and wide, frightened eyes, pressed her face into her mother’s chest, clutching a battered stuffed bunny. An officer handed her a cup of water, but she barely noticed.

When she saw me step out of the interview room, she immediately stood up.

Her eyes narrowed, and she squared her shoulders, jaw set like she was ready to fight the whole world for her kid. For a split second, everything went dead silent—the kind of silence that comes before a storm.

Before I could say a word, she slapped me hard across the face. “You could lay hands on a three-year-old girl? What kind of sick freak does that to a kid? You should rot in prison!”

The slap rang out, heat blooming across my cheek, but the sting in my chest was worse—like the world had just labeled me with a scarlet letter. The officers stepped forward, hands hovering at their belts, but she was relentless, fury and heartbreak pouring out of her. My own shock gave way to a burning ache, not just in my face but deep inside my chest. The words echoed off the tile walls, and I saw heads turn at the desk beyond.

Right there in front of the cops, she screamed at me, accusing me of luring her daughter into the basement of my shop and molesting her, cursing me to die a miserable death.

Every accusation was a fresh wound. My hands shook, not from guilt but helplessness. The receptionist in the glass booth pressed her lips together, trying not to watch, but failing. I felt a hundred invisible eyes judging me—strangers, officers, the universe itself.

Molestation—

I’m just an ordinary, law-abiding citizen. The worst thing I’ve ever done is get some stray cats in the neighborhood fixed.

I pay my taxes, wave at my neighbors, run my sandwich shop down on Main Street. I coached Little League one summer when the regular guy got the flu. My idea of wild is a late-night Taco Bell run. I never once imagined something like this could happen to me.

And now you accuse me of molestation? Do you want me dead?

The question pulsed in my brain, hot and bitter. My life felt like it was sliding off a cliff I never saw coming. I looked around, desperately searching for a lifeline, for logic to win out, but all I saw were cold faces and silent judgment.

At that moment, everyone in the hall turned to stare at me, their eyes filled with contempt and disgust.

The air turned thick, suffocating. Even the janitor paused, mop in hand, glancing at me like I was something foul stuck to the floor. I felt stripped bare, exposed to a jury of strangers who’d already made up their minds. I wanted to scream that I was innocent, but the words died in my throat—nobody here would believe me anyway.

My friend saw the way she was glaring, like she wanted to rip me apart.

Derek’s hands curled into fists, but he kept his voice level. I saw the anger blazing behind his eyes, the kind you get when someone threatens family. He slid between us, the shield I didn’t deserve but desperately needed.

He quickly stepped in front of me. “There’s gotta be some mistake here. My buddy isn’t that kind of person.”

His voice was loud, clear, and stubborn. He stared down the mother and the cops alike, his conviction unwavering. It was the kind of stand-up-for-your-own moment I’d seen him do since we were kids playing pickup basketball at Lincoln Park.

But the mother wouldn’t listen. She started clawing at us in a frenzy.

Her nails dug at Derek’s arms, catching his cheek. The officers stepped in, one grabbing her gently by the elbow, but she twisted free, her screams bouncing off the walls like fire alarms.

My friend got scratched by accident, bloody welts appearing on his face, making him wince in pain.

He wiped at the blood, jaw clenched, but didn’t back down. “Ma’am, you need to calm down,” he tried, but she wouldn’t hear it.

I forced down my anger. “You can’t just say stuff like this without proof. Who do you think did it? Look me in the eye and tell me.”

I struggled to keep my voice steady, but it cracked at the edges. I wanted to scream, to run, but I made myself stand tall. My lawyer’s words from a traffic ticket years ago echoed in my mind: ‘Keep it factual, don’t get emotional.’ I clung to that now, even as my knees threatened to give.

“It was you!” The mother’s face twisted with rage. “You animal, you deserve to die!”

She spat the words like venom. The little girl started wailing, the sound sharp and desperate. An officer shifted between us, hand hovering near his radio.

The cops tried to calm her down.

One officer murmured into his shoulder mic, calling for backup, while the other offered the mother a seat and a tissue. He promised they would get to the truth, but his voice was weary. This was another night in a long career.

She began screaming and causing a scene. “My daughter was violated! If you don’t hurry up and arrest this creep, there’s no justice! You’re obviously taking bribes, that’s why you’re stalling and refusing to open a case. You think you can push around single moms and little kids because we’re powerless!”

Her voice ricocheted down the hall, drawing more stares. Somewhere, a door opened and another officer poked his head out. The receptionist looked uneasy, typing something into her computer, pretending not to hear. The world felt off-kilter, as if the truth didn’t matter, only who shouted loudest.

Seeing the officer’s face darken, she realized she’d gone too far and quickly pointed at me again. “You can even hurt such a little child. Aren’t you afraid of karma?”

She spat the word like a curse, her anger twisting into something sharp and desperate. I met her gaze, searching for any sign of doubt or mercy. There was none.

I didn’t want to argue with her anymore. I turned to the officer beside me. “Officer, I didn’t do it. She’s slandering me.”

My voice trembled, but I forced myself to look the officer in the eye. He nodded, scribbling something in his notebook, lips pressed tight together. The station air tasted stale, a mixture of coffee and old sweat.

“You dare say it wasn’t you?” The mother dragged her daughter over, trying to get her to identify me. “Was it him? Was it him who took you to the basement?”

She all but shoved the little girl in front of me. The girl looked up, wide-eyed and silent, shrinking behind her bunny as the adults argued over her head. I felt a pang of pity—she didn’t belong in this nightmare any more than I did.