Chapter 5: Public Enemy Number One

At the time, I thought she was just venting.

I told Derek it was over, that we could forget the whole ugly night. I tried to believe it. I was wrong.

I didn’t expect what happened next.

Sometimes the world doesn’t let you breathe. This was one of those times.

Two days later, early in the morning, I went to open my shop and found a funeral wreath at the door.

At first, I thought someone had left it there by mistake after a funeral.

The white lilies and plastic ribbon seemed out of place on my stoop. I glanced around for a delivery van, but there was nothing.

But when I got closer, I nearly fainted from anger.

Taped to the wreath was a cardboard sign, scrawled in thick black Sharpie. My stomach dropped as I read the words.

On the wreath, it read: “Scumbag shop owner molests young girl—may your whole family rot in hell.”

My hands shook so badly I almost dropped my keys. I looked up and down the street, but Main Street was quiet, the only witness a stray cat darting behind the trash bins. Shame and fury boiled together.

Derek happened to call me just then.

My phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with his name. I let it ring twice before answering, my voice hoarse.

“That mom posted about you online! You’re trending!”

His words hit me like a second slap. I stared at the wreath, numb. Trending. Me. I fumbled to open Twitter, dread growing with every tap.

I checked the trending topics.

There, under #ShopMonster, was my name—hundreds of thousands of retweets, my face plastered under headlines that made me look like a criminal.

‘Shop owner with a monster’s face molested my three-year-old daughter, but he’s so powerful the cops won’t file a case.’

It was everywhere. Facebook, Instagram, TikTok. My inbox filled with hate.

The mother had reported me online under her real name.

She went live on Facebook, tears streaking her cheeks, holding her license like it was proof of sainthood. The comments below were a sea of fire emojis and angry faces.

On camera, holding her driver’s license, she wept: “In May this year, as a single mom, I rented a shop on this street, hoping to make a little money to support my daughter.

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, voice trembling. I recognized the backdrop—it was her kitchen, the one visible from the alley behind the shop.

“At the time, I got to know the shop owner next door, and my daughter often played in his shop.

She choked up, glancing off camera like she was searching for courage. “He seemed so kind. He always smiled.”

“But one day, my daughter cried and told me her private parts hurt. She said… she said the shop owner took her to the basement, took off her pants, and then kicked and hit her.”

I felt sick. My hands clenched, knuckles white. The comments rolled in faster than I could read.

At this point, the mother slapped herself twice. “I deserve to die! I’m not fit to be a mother! I didn’t protect my daughter!”

The sound was sharp, theatrical. The internet ate it up, hearts and angry faces flooding the feed. Her tears looked real, her pain undeniable. Who wouldn’t believe her?

She even posted secretly recorded footage from the police station online.

I recognized the cheap chairs, the echo of my own voice in the background. My humiliation was now public property.

The original footage showed the little girl playing in my shop for a while before leaving.

It was harmless—kids running, Caleb giggling, my voice calling out for everyone to be careful near the hot panini press.

But the mother edited the video, only showing her daughter playing in my shop, and claimed, “The full security footage was already deleted by that monster. I reported it to the cops several times, but they kept delaying, saying there wasn’t enough evidence to open a case!”

The cut was jarring. She froze the video as her daughter disappeared off-screen, implying something sinister. The comments swelled.

She cried with a twisted face, “Please, everyone, share this and help us! I have nowhere else to turn. The man who hurt my daughter is so powerful—I can’t fight him.”

Her voice trembled, her eyes wild. The internet rallied, hashtags multiplying by the minute. People changed their profile pictures in solidarity.

Through her tears, she accused, “The doctor said my daughter has a serious infection down there, and she was even torn from being molested. I really want to die.”

She waved a crumpled hospital bill at the camera. My stomach knotted. Was it real? Did it matter?

“Now my daughter has suffered serious physical and mental harm. If anyone touches her, she cries and screams.”

Her words were a knife to my heart. I pictured my own son, his innocence weaponized.

To back up her claims, she said that when she took her daughter to the cops, the girl immediately recognized me and cried in fear, saying I touched her.

The video cut to the police station, her daughter whimpering, the camera shaking as she zoomed in on my stunned face. The comment section exploded—people demanded justice, called for my head.