Chapter 3: Painted Guilt and Public Fury

A couple days passed, and I'd put the whole thing behind me. Life moves forward, after all. Or so I thought.

I started double-checking every request, making sure I didn’t get roped into anything outside the norm. Can you blame me?

But then my supervisor called, telling me to stop delivering for now and come in immediately. Great. Now what?

I still finished my last order before heading to HQ. Old habits.

Old habits die hard. I couldn’t leave Mrs. Patel’s Friday pizza order hanging—she tips in twenties. Always asks about my mom, too.

It was the afternoon rush, so a bunch of coworkers were there on break. The place was packed.

But the spot where we usually parked our delivery bikes was splattered with red paint—and someone had spray-painted the word 'DEATH.' My jaw dropped.

The paint was fresh, dripping down the wheels and pooling on the pavement. The smell was awful, stinging my nose.

My supervisor, cigarette in hand, pointed ahead. I followed his gaze.

Standing not far away was that same woman—Melissa Harper. My heart sank.

"The doctor said my son's fever could cause permanent damage. And you—the culprit—think you can just walk away?"

"You underestimate a mother's strength. For my son, I'll do anything!" She meant it.

A crowd had gathered, whispering to each other. Word spreads fast.

I could feel their stares. It was suffocating.

"Did you hear about this delivery guy...?"

"He's the one who made that kid sick, right?"

"Man, that's rough."

"He looks decent enough, but who knew he'd do something so gross? Shameful!"

She really knew how to whip up a crowd. No kidding.

Just a few days ago, she was the one offering me chicken soup. The irony stung.

I glared at her. Enough was enough.

"Why didn't you refuse your boss's overtime and pick up your kid yourself? You ordered a Starbucks and asked me to bring your child home—that's not a reasonable request. I felt bad for you, so I paid for an Uber."

"You left him outside the school for over half an hour, and he caught a fever. How is that my fault? Am I his dad?" I let that hang in the air.

After I finished, I told my coworkers to call the police. Let’s settle this.

Several of our delivery bikes were covered in sticky, foul-smelling red paint—impossible to clean off. The stench clung to everything.

The paint had seeped into the gears and chains, gumming everything up. Total mess.

My friend Mike tried to wipe his bike down, but the red just smeared, making it look even worse. He shot me a look like, "Can you believe this?"

"Quit trying to shift the blame! Kids that young don't know to tell you they're cold. How do I know you didn't open all the windows on the way back and make my son sick?"

"It's March, but the wind is freezing. Even adults can't stand it, let alone kids! Seriously."

Here we go—she started crying again.

Her sobs echoed off the brick walls, but I wasn’t buying it. Not for a second.

She was good at playing the victim, but just because someone cries doesn't mean they're right. Sometimes you just have to take a breath and remember—evidence matters most.

Facts first.