That night, I slept better than I had in months.
Not because my problems were gone.
But because I knew I hadn’t made them worse.
—
The next morning, everything changed.
I was making breakfast—if you can call burned toast and spilled cereal “breakfast”—when someone knocked on the door.
Not a normal knock.
Loud.
Sharp.
Official.
My stomach dropped.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
A sheriff.
Uniform. Badge. Serious expression.
Everything in me went cold.
“Evan Carter?” he asked.
“Yeah…” I said slowly.
His eyes stayed locked on mine.
“We need to talk.”
My mind raced.
“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
He studied me for a moment.
Then he said, “I’d like you to come with me.”
The drive felt longer than it should have.
I kept replaying last night in my head.
The wallet. The money. The man.
“I returned it,” I said finally. “I didn’t take anything.”
“I know,” the sheriff replied calmly.
That confused me.
“Then what is this?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned onto a familiar street.
My chest tightened.
We pulled up in front of the same house.
Mr. Lawson’s.
—
