Chapter 7: Escalation

I insisted I had no chance to commit the crime—that the whole thing was pure slander.

I posted, I called, I begged people to listen. I hired a lawyer who told me to stay quiet, but silence felt like surrender.

But the online abuse and cyberbullying didn’t stop.

If anything, it got worse. People made memes of my mugshot, circulated fake confessions, even posted a deepfake video of me apologizing for a crime I never committed.

People said—

“There’s definitely something fishy here!”

"Just because the cops say you're innocent doesn't mean you are."

“How come he just happened to not be at the shop those days? Isn’t that suspicious?”

"Maybe he paid someone to cover for him."

“Who knows if you secretly came back from out of town?”

"Abusers always have an alibi."

They called me a monster, saying I deserved to die.

The threats grew bolder. Anonymous emails. Handwritten notes taped to my door. My voicemail filled with curses and death wishes.

With public opinion boiling over, even in the middle of the night, people messaged me to curse me, some even threatening to kill my whole family.

I started sleeping with a baseball bat by my bed. I double-locked every door. My wife refused to let our son play outside, even in the backyard.

Even though the police told the mother clearly—

They called her in, explained the evidence, showed her the footage. Still, she wouldn’t back down.

Her daughter had not been violated.

The doctors found no signs of abuse. The child psychologist said the girl’s fear was likely a reaction to the adults’ fighting, not anything I’d done.

And clarified that I had committed no crime.

The officers filed their report, the DA declined to prosecute. It should have been over.

Logically, she should have been relieved that her daughter was safe.

I thought the nightmare was ending. But some nightmares just get louder.

But she kept attacking me.

She doubled down—posting more videos, tagging journalists, telling anyone who would listen that the police were corrupt and I was a monster.

She changed the timeline, now claiming I molested her daughter in June, not May, and that it happened in my shop in June.

The details shifted every time someone poked a hole in her story. She got more creative, wilder with each accusation.

She posted everywhere on Instagram, constantly exposing me, still insisting I molested her daughter.

Her new posts racked up likes and shares. People sent her money. They sent me hate.

She stormed into Caleb’s preschool, yelling that his dad was a pervert. The teachers called us in a panic. Caleb cried, asking if Daddy had to go to jail. My wife sobbed in the parking lot.

God!

I threw my phone across the room. Derek picked it up and handed it back, his jaw tight.

Isn’t your daughter’s safety the best outcome?

It made no sense. I’d never wished harm on anyone—least of all a child. I wanted her to be safe. Why couldn’t she let it go?

Why does someone have to have molested your daughter?

My brain couldn’t process it. The question gnawed at me day and night. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality.

Whenever anyone questioned her, she’d cry and accuse me again.

People who dared doubt her were dogpiled and blocked. She played the victim, and the crowd cheered her on.

Then she’d say, “I’m a single mom, it’s not easy for me, and now my three-year-old daughter has been molested.”

The words were always the same, rehearsed and perfect for the camera. Sympathy poured in by the bucketload.

To gain sympathy, she pinned a comment on her social media: “No mother would frame someone at the cost of her child’s innocence.”

It was the perfect shield—anyone who doubted her was a monster too.

Under her manipulation of public opinion, my shop entrance was filled with funeral wreaths.

Each one a twisted message—Go away. Die. You’re not welcome here. Derek helped me drag them to the curb, but they kept coming.

My dad was so angry he had a stroke.

He collapsed at home, my mom finding him on the bathroom floor. I drove through the night to get there, guilt heavy in my chest.

My wife was surrounded and insulted on her way home from work, breaking down in tears.

They cornered her outside the grocery store, spat at her, called her names. She hid in the car, sobbing, until the manager walked her out.

I saw the mother like a comment that read—

She hearted a post that listed my address, my son’s preschool, and urged people to “do what needs to be done.”

“This scumbag shop owner’s kid is Caleb, goes to Sunshine Preschool. Everyone, don’t let him off! The whole scumbag family deserves to die!”

I puked in the kitchen sink, hands shaking so hard I could barely turn on the faucet. Food tasted like sawdust. I stopped opening the curtains.

All this torment made me want to die.

I stared at the bottle of sleeping pills on my nightstand, wondering if it would just be easier. Derek sat with me, refusing to leave, talking me down every night until I fell asleep.

After settling my wife and kid back in my hometown, I called Derek.

I packed up everything—photos, favorite toys, Jasper’s leash—and drove three states to my mom’s place. It was the only place left that felt safe.

“How is it? Is your family settled?” Derek asked.

His voice was soft, almost fatherly. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.

“Pretty much. My mom is looking after my dad,” I replied.

The silence stretched between us. He grunted, a low, angry sound.

Derek snorted. “Good! This time, I’ll make sure she loses everything and goes to jail!”

For the first time, I heard steel in his voice. He wasn’t going to let this go.