You don't belong in that leather seat, kid—get your greasy rags out of a $1.2 million custom car before I have you thrown off this lot, showroom manager Marcus Bennett sneered at seventeen-year-o...
Sheriff Eli Croft, a man whose face I’d known since we were boys raising hell in these same Pine Ridge streets, walked into the shop just before eleven. His uniform was starched, his gaze steady. He listened to me recount Toby’s story and the discovery of the escrow transfer, his expression grim.
“That’s a nasty piece of business, Arthur,” Eli said, shaking his head.
I nodded, gesturing to the hard drive Leo had pulled. “It’s all on here. The cloning logs, the transfer dates, the IP addresses.”
We were standing near the main showroom entrance when the glass doors swung open. Marcus strode in, his usual smirk in place, but his eyes held a wary glint. Beside him, dressed in a cheap suit, was Councilman Davies, a man known more for his golf swing than his legal acumen.
“Arthur,” Marcus said, his voice dripping with false concern. “I heard you were making quite a scene.”
I felt the anger boil in my chest, but I held it back. “Marcus. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Indeed,” Marcus replied, turning to Sheriff Croft. “Eli, I’m afraid my father-in-law here is experiencing some… cognitive difficulties.”
Councilman Davies stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Mr. Driscoll, there have been some concerns raised about your recent erratic behavior.”
My jaw tightened. This was his counter-attack.
“Erratic behavior?” I repeated, my voice rising. “I just uncovered a multi-million dollar corporate theft. That’s not erratic, that’s called vigilance.”
Marcus chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound. “He claims ‘theft.’ I call it recovering debts. And it seems Arthur has been recovering his own debts from the company accounts for years.”
He produced a folder from under his arm. Inside were several photocopied payroll ledger adjustments, dated three years prior. Each bore a signature that looked uncannily like mine.
“These are adjustments to Mr. Driscoll’s own salary and expense accounts,” Marcus announced to Eli and Davies, his voice loud enough for the mechanics still in the bays to hear. “Backdated, unsubstantiated, and frankly, tax fraud.”
Eli’s expression hardened. He took the documents, his eyes scanning the signatures. The councilman gave me a look of deep concern, a silent warning.
“Arthur, this is serious,” Davies said. “A public dispute, especially one involving tax fraud, could jeopardize the town’s economic revitalization grant. We can’t afford that kind of scandal right now.”
I felt a surge of panic. Marcus was trying to discredit me, paint me as the villain, and use the town’s future as a shield.
Then Leo stepped forward, his eyes blazing. He pushed past me, placing himself squarely between Marcus and Eli.
“Those are fakes,” Leo declared, his voice cutting through the tension.
Marcus scoffed. “And how would you know, kid?”
“Because Grandpa keeps the *real* ledgers,” Leo shot back. “In the fireproof safe.”
He gestured towards a heavy, old-fashioned safe built into the office wall. I hadn’t even thought about it. Marcus had been using digital-only records for years, but I’d always kept a physical backup of the original books.
“The real ones are signed in ink,” Leo said, his chin jutting out. “Not scanned photocopies from three years ago.”
Eli looked from Leo to the safe, then back to the documents in his hand. He noticed a slight blur on the edges of Marcus’s provided “signatures” that wasn’t present in other printed text.
“He’s right,” Eli murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of one of Marcus’s documents. “These do look… duplicated.”
Marcus’s smug smile faltered. He opened his mouth to protest, but Eli held up a hand.
“Councilman, Mr. Bennett,” Eli said, his voice firm. “We need to fully decrypt these server logs Arthur has. Until then, any formal action is on hold.”
He looked at me, a silent promise in his eyes. “Arthur, keep these documents safe. And don’t go anywhere.”
The confrontation ended, leaving Marcus fuming, but the threat of his false accusations hung in the air like exhaust fumes. We had bought ourselves time, but Marcus had shown his hand: he was willing to lie and accuse to destroy me.
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