Chapter 2: Accused at Dawn

I thought that was the end of it. But the next day, the cops showed up and took me in.

I was still wiping the sleep from my eyes, coffee barely kicking in, when a squad car eased up beside me. Seeing two officers, my stomach dropped like a stone. Did I speed through a school zone or something? What came next—I never saw it coming.

Later, at the station, she unloaded on me:

"All I did was ask a delivery guy to help pick up my child, but the next day my kid came down with a high fever and couldn't get out of bed. I want him to pay for my kid's medical bills, missed school, vitamins. Emotional trauma. Seventy thousand dollars, all told."

I just stared at her, then burst out laughing.

Seventy thousand? I actually snorted. I’ve seen people act wild, but this was next level.

"Mr. Bennett, please come with us." My heart skipped a beat.

Anyway, I'd just finished my last delivery when a squad car pulled up next to me. The officers had clearly been watching me for a while, closing in from both sides like I was about to make a run for it.

Their faces were all business, hands resting near their belts. Was this really happening?

"Officer, I’ll cooperate," I said, trying to keep it together. My nerves were shot.

I tried to sound calm, but my voice came out a little shaky. At least they were nice enough to make sure my e-bike was parked properly. Small mercies, I guess.

My mind raced. Did I run a red light? Cause an accident? No way—I would’ve noticed. Did the kid I delivered last night die? Did they think I was involved? That didn’t add up. I personally handed the kid over to the woman, who thanked me and even offered me some chicken soup. I passed—I'm not taking soup from a stranger.

I remembered her at the door, ladling soup into a thermos. She seemed normal enough then. Or did something happen to her?

By the time we got to the station, my heart was pounding even harder.

The cold air inside the station didn’t help. But then I told myself: if I did something wrong, fine. If I didn't, I'm good. I'm not a criminal—so what am I afraid of?

I tried to steady my breathing. Worrying wouldn’t help, right? Since I had no clue what was going on, the cops arranged for me to meet the so-called victim's family.

Just as I guessed—it was the single mom. Of course.

She was sitting in the waiting area, clutching a tissue. Her eyes were red, but she looked furious, not sad. "My name is Melissa Harper. My son, Jackson, is in elementary school. Yesterday afternoon, I had to work late and couldn't pick him up, so I asked this delivery guy to do it. You admit that, right?"

She just stared, like she could see right through me.

I nodded. That’s exactly what happened.

Then she just exploded.

She launched out of her chair, voice rising. "I thought you were a good person, but I didn't expect you to be so heartless. You just couldn't stand how smart and talented Jackson is. After you brought him home, he came down with a high fever and hasn't woken up—he was rushed to the ICU last night!"

"You're a murderer." She paused, letting it hang. "If anything happens to my son, I'll haunt you forever! If you don't want to go to jail, pay up!"

She rattled off a number—seventy thousand dollars—like it was nothing. I almost expected confetti to fall.

I just stared. Stunned.

Talk about brain freeze.

Seriously, how can a normal person say something so nuts?

I looked at the officers, half expecting them to laugh. But they just waited.

"Officer, I think I get what's going on. The app records everything. On the phone, this lady said her child had been waiting in the cold for half an hour and begged me to help. I felt bad for a single mom and didn't even charge her for the ride."

"Now I'm getting blackmailed for doing a good deed? That’s like buying a pair of shoes at Target, tripping over your own feet, and blaming the shoes!"

Figures. My bad luck was just saving up for this.

The police, of course, cared about evidence. There was no way I could be guilty. And murder? Come on. Are you kidding me?

"Ugh, you’re just talking trash! Fine, tell me, what kind of car did you take?"

She glared at me, eyes red with rage. I didn't look away.

I blinked. "An Uber." For a second, I wondered if she’d accuse me of using a clown car. Yeah, right.

What, did she think I used some sketchy van? Please.

I grumbled under my breath, but I still wanted to make a good impression on the officers, so I kept cooperating, hoping to get back to work soon. My customers were still waiting for their food—especially the big tippers in my area who order four or five times a day and basically pay my rent.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, probably another order, but I silenced it. Not now.

"An Uber! You just incriminated yourself—that's proof!" She practically shrieked, voice climbing an octave.

She lost it again.

"What's wrong with you? How could you let my Jackson ride in an Uber? Those cars aren't regularly cleaned, and the drivers smoke inside! My son's fever is all your fault. Forget an apology. Just pay the seventy grand. If he has any brain problems in the future, I won't come after you then!"

I couldn’t help myself—I had to ask, with a little sarcasm, "So what kind of car would be acceptable for Jackson?"

"Of course it has to be a Tesla, Bentley, or Rolls-Royce! Only cars like that can guarantee Jackson's safety." I almost laughed out loud.

Melissa Harper glared at me like I'd committed some kind of felony. Over an Uber.

I’ve dealt with difficult customers before, so I wasn’t about to lose my cool now.

I paused, then smiled. "Ms. Harper, where am I supposed to find an Uber that's a Tesla, Bentley, or Rolls-Royce? You're just nitpicking for the sake of it."

Then I turned to the police. "Officer, there's no way her unreasonable demands make me guilty. I did a good deed and got an Uber. As for why it wasn't a Rolls-Royce—I'm just a delivery guy."

I shrugged, trying to keep things light, but honestly, I was done. The cops checked the footage. Turns out, the kid just got sick from waiting in the cold. Me? Harm him? Ridiculous.

They smiled at me. "You're good to go." Relief flooded through me.

I exhaled.

Suddenly, she grabbed my wrist.

Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone so frazzled. For a split second, I wondered if she was going to break my arm.

"You can't leave! If anything happens to my son, it's all your fault!"

"You took my request, so you have to take full responsibility. If you don’t, I’ll complain to your boss and get you fired!"

The officers tried to calm her down, but she wouldn't let it go. She just kept going.

I finally left the station, but when I looked back, I saw her glaring at me, full of spite—like a hawk zeroing in on a field mouse.