Chapter 3: The Paper Trail

Chapter 3: The Paper Trail

The Monte Carlo’s engine idled low and heavy in the darkness outside “Grease Monkey.” The lights were off, save for a single bulb burning over John’s workbench. Defeated, hollowed out by the bureaucratic walls he’d slammed into all day, Alex knew this was the only place left to go. He killed the engine and walked into the familiar smell of oil and steel, a scent that was usually a comfort but now felt like a bitter reminder of the dream he’d lost.

John was meticulously cleaning a set of tools, wiping each one down before placing it back on its pegboard outline. He didn't look up as Alex approached, but said, “Miller give you the ‘life lesson’ speech?”

Alex slumped onto a nearby stool, the sound of his own sigh loud in the quiet garage. “How’d you know?”

“Because guys like Miller have been giving that same speech to kids like you for twenty years,” John said, finally turning, his eyes calm and perceptive. He leaned against the bench, crossing his thick arms. “Let me guess. The bank is ‘launching an investigation’ and the cops say it’s a ‘civil matter’.”

It was so precise, so exactly what had happened, that Alex could only nod, a fresh wave of helpless frustration washing over him. “They don’t care, John. Nobody cares. It’s like I’m screaming into a void. Rick steals two years of my life, and everyone just shrugs.”

“They don’t care about your story,” John corrected him gently. “They don't care about what’s fair. The bank, the cops… they run on paper. On proof. Right now, all they have is a charge slip with your card number on it. To them, that’s you. Your word against a piece of paper? The paper wins every time.”

John picked up a heavy socket wrench, weighing it in his hand. “You went to them asking for justice. You were thinking like a victim. You need to stop. You want to fix this? You stop asking for help and you start hunting.”

A flicker of something sharp and vital cut through Alex’s despair. “Hunting for what?”

“Paper,” John said, his voice firm. “You have to find your own proof. A piece of paper that tells a different story. One with Rick’s name on it.”

The idea was so simple, yet it felt revolutionary. All day, he had been focused on telling his story to people in power. He’d never considered that he could be the one to uncover the evidence. Hope, fragile but fierce, began to dawn.

“The stores,” Alex said, his mind racing. “The ones on the bill. The receipts.”

“Exactly,” John nodded. “They swiped the card, which means someone signed for it. And I’m willing to bet your friend Rick, who thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room, has an ego bigger than his brain. I bet he signed his own name.”

John’s logic was a lifeline. Alex’s naive trust had been a weakness, but Rick’s arrogance? That could be a fatal flaw.

“They’ll never give it to me,” Alex said, the old defeatism creeping back in. “Customer privacy, right?”

“Not if you ask the right way,” John countered. He walked over to the shop’s grimy wall-mounted phone. “You’re not an angry victim anymore. You’re a concerned son. You’re a helpful employee. You’re whatever you need to be to get that person on the other end of the line to feel for you. People don’t help systems. They help people.”

Armed with a new strategy, Alex went home. The house was dark and silent, his parents already asleep. He spread the credit card statement on the kitchen table under the dim light of the stove hood. AudiophileZ. CarSound Emporium. Sonic Boom Audio. He circled the first number with a pen.

His first call was a disaster. He was nervous, his voice tight. A bored-sounding teenager at AudiophileZ cut him off before he could even finish his story. “Sorry, man. Company policy. Can’t give out transaction info.” Click.

He took a deep breath, picturing John’s calm, steady gaze. He dialed the number for CarSound Emporium. This time, he tried to sound more official, using a deeper voice, hinting that he was working with the credit card company. The night manager was polite but firm. “You’ll need to have your fraud department send us a formal, written request via fax or mail.” Another dead end.

He was down to his last chance: Sonic Boom Audio. The charge was for $776.27. He stared at the number, the knot in his stomach tightening. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and tried to channel John’s advice. People help people.

He dialed.

“Sonic Boom, this is Dave,” a weary but friendly voice answered.

“Hi, Dave. My name’s Alex,” he started, forcing a note of earnest, youthful panic into his voice. “I’ve got a really weird situation, and I was hoping you could help me out. It’s kind of a family thing.”

He laid out the story he and John had worked out. He didn’t mention fraud or theft. He spoke about his dad, about co-signing for his first credit card, about a huge misunderstanding.

“See, my dad thinks I bought a huge stereo from you guys on Saturday,” Alex explained, making his voice crack just a little. “He’s about to ground me for life and take my car keys. The thing is, I was at work all day. I think my friend… I think he might have borrowed my card as a prank, trying to get me in trouble. The name on the slip should be ‘Rick Massey’.”

He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable rejection.

There was a long pause on the other end. “Saturday, huh? What time?” Dave asked.

“The statement says around 3:15 PM.”

Alex heard the shuffling of papers, the click-clack of a keyboard. “Massey… Yeah, I remember the kid. Cocky type. Gel in his hair. Bought a top-of-the-line Alpine head unit.”

Alex’s heart leaped. “That’s him! Look, I know it’s a long shot, and I know you’re not supposed to… but if you could just fax me a copy of that sales receipt, I could show my dad the signature. Prove it wasn’t me. It would honestly save my life.”

He could hear Dave sigh through the receiver. It was the sigh of a man who remembered being nineteen and at the mercy of his parents. “You know, I could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

“I know,” Alex said softly. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.”

Another long pause. The silence stretched, thick with tension.

“Alright, kid,” Dave said finally. “I feel for ya. My old man would’ve skinned me alive. You got a fax number?”

Alex practically shouted his family’s number into the phone, thanking Dave profusely. He hung up, his body thrumming with adrenaline. He raced to the small, cluttered alcove off the kitchen where the family’s beige fax machine sat, a relic even by mid-90s standards.

He stood over it, waiting. The silence of the house was absolute. A minute passed. Then two. Doubt began to creep in. Maybe Dave changed his mind. Maybe his boss caught him.

Then, a piercing shriek cut through the quiet. The high-pitched, electronic handshake of the fax call was the most beautiful sound Alex had ever heard. The machine whirred, clicked, and then, with a low groan, began to pull a sheet of waxy thermal paper through its rollers.

He watched, transfixed, as the black text materialized, line by agonizing line. The Sonic Boom Audio logo appeared at the top, followed by the date and time. Then, the item description: ALPINE CDA-7839. The price: $776.27.

The paper kept feeding out, agonizingly slow. He could see the subtotal, the tax, the grand total. And then, at the very bottom, the signature line.

A scrawled, messy signature was taking shape. A lazy, looping ‘R’ followed by a sharp, arrogant ‘M’.

Rick Massey.

The paper curled out of the machine and drifted to the floor. Alex snatched it up, his hands trembling. He stared at the signature, a black-and-white testament to the casual cruelty of a so-called friend. Every shred of doubt, every ounce of hope that this was all a misunderstanding, evaporated in the face of this undeniable proof.

He wasn’t the victim anymore. He wasn't the desperate kid pleading for help. He was the man holding the weapon. The cold fury he’d felt in the diner parking lot returned, but now it was forged into something hard and sharp. It was the feeling of power.

The game had changed. And now, he was making the rules.