Scarred By a Simple Purchase

nshots, audio files, correspondence. My plan was to go to the police first thing in the morning, armed with a mountain

y to the detective, when a noise from outside shattered my concen

stomach. I crawled to the wind

ad gathered. And in the center of it was Mr. Thorne. He was holding a megaphone, his face twisted in a triumphant smirk. Be

MENT 2B IS A THIEF. PAY

t number. He was broadc

ing, pointing up at my window. Some had their phones out, recording. The humiliation was a physical thing

ing me flinch. "We' re not leaving until the thief pays what she owes! A

e blinds. A wide, predatory grin spread across his

rah! Just come down and pay me! That' s all I want! Give me the seven hundred and

oment, he admitted it. This wasn't about justice. It wasn't about a stolen dre

s' association is calling me. You need to handle this NOW.' Then a flood of notifications from social me

blare of the megaphone, the constant pinging of my phone. It was too much. I felt the foundations of my carefully

ed in my head. 'Make it g

e, it all just crumbled into dust. I couldn'

utique name in my transaction history. I hit 'Send Money' . I typed in the amount he' d demanded, an exorbitant sum that included the price

it

ly. 'Your payment of $750.00 to T

to the window and held my phone up

. He lowered the megaphone. "Alri

into a beat-up white van, and drove away, leaving a stunned silence in their wake

t again. The immedi

d let him win. I had paid my own extortionist. The shame of it was a bitter taste in my mout

thought he had won. He thought I was broken. But the payment wa

eplaced by something hard and unyielding. I pulled out my phone

alm and professional. "911

voice low and controlled,

e. I have just been the vict