Footsteps echoed as a guard brought in a visitor, Sarah Mitchell, the journalist from the speech. Her auburn hair was tied back, and her green eyes sparkled with determination. "Jack Adams?" she asked, holding a notebook. "I'm Sarah from The National Herald. I don't believe you acted alone."
Jack leaned forward, cautious. "Why do you care? I confessed."
Sarah sat across from him, undeterred by the guard's glare. "That tape doesn't add up. The angle is off, as if someone had set it up. Someone wants you to take the blame." She lowered her voice. "I've been following Roswell's campaign. There's talk about a rival, Senator Hayes, causing trouble. Know him?"
Jack's heart raced. He had seen Hayes on TV, criticizing David's policies. Was he linked to the note? "I don't know anything," he said, though doubt crept in. "Why help me?"
Sarah's expression softened. "I know about your mother's accident. You're protecting her, not trying to kill Roswell. Let me investigate further."
Jack studied her. Her intensity sparked something in him—hope, perhaps. "Be careful," he warned. "If someone framed me, they could be dangerous."
She nodded, scribbling a note. "I found a hidden camera in the security house at the speech venue. It wasn't in the official logs. If I can get the footage, it might show who was really there."
The guard signaled that time was up. Sarah stood, brushing her hand against Jack's as she handed him a card. "Call me if you remember anything. I won't stop."
Back in his cell, Jack held the card tightly. Her touch lingered in his mind. He replayed the shooting: the chaos, the shadowy figure fleeing from the security house. Had he been manipulated? A fellow inmate, Marcus, a wiry man with a scar on his cheek, leaned against the bars. "Heard you got a visitor, kid. Watch out—journalists can bring trouble."
Jack frowned. "You know something?"
Marcus smirked. "In here, everyone's got secrets. Keep your eyes open." As he walked away, Jack spotted a guard passing Marcus a note. Anxiety twisted in his gut. Was someone watching him, even now?
Mrs. Adams rolled her wheelchair to the hospital window, her reflection pale against the glass. Jack's arrest had shattered her, but David's survival—thanks to Jack's kidney—offered a flicker of hope. She clutched the scarf David had given her twenty years ago, its fabric worn but soft. Memories surged: their stolen moments, his laughter, his promise to leave his wife. Then came the accident, her fall down the stairs to save toddler Jack from David's car, leaving her paralyzed.
She'd hidden from David, changing her name to protect her pride. Now, he was back, and her heart ached with love she couldn't bury. A nurse knocked, interrupting her thoughts. "Mrs. Adams, you have a visitor."
David Roswell entered, his suit rumpled and his eyes heavy with guilt. "Clara," he said, using her old name. "I'm so sorry for everything."
She wiped a tear. "You didn't know about the accident. I made sure of that. But Jack… he's paying for my pain now."
David knelt beside her wheelchair. "I never stopped loving you. I looked for you, but you were gone. Let me help Jack. He's my son."
Clara's voice trembled. "He hates you, David. And I can't blame him. But he saved you. That's who he is."
David took her hand, stirring old warmth. "I'll fight for him. For both of you." He paused, glancing at his phone. "Mark Jonas is investigating the shooting. He thinks there's more to it."
Clara nodded, but her heart sank. Could she trust David after all these years? As he left, her phone buzzed with an anonymous call. "Stay away from Roswell," a voice hissed. "Or your son pays the price." The line went dead, leaving Clara frozen, the scarf slipping from her fingers. Who knew David was here, and what did they want?
David Roswell sat in the Oval Office, the weight of the presidency heavier than ever. Jack's arrest gnawed at him. His son's confession clashed with his selfless act of donating a kidney. The tampered security tape, shown by Mark Jonas, raised doubts. Was Jack protecting someone or being framed?
His phone buzzed with a file from an aide labeled Adams Case. Inside was a coded message: "The shadow moves at dawn." David frowned. Was this linked to the shooting? He called Mark Jonas, the chief security officer, into his office. "Any leads on the tape?" David asked.
Mark shifted uneasily. "The security house logs were altered, sir. Someone with access covered their tracks. I'm looking into Apex Solutions, the firm that installed the cameras."
David's gaze sharpened. Apex had ties to Senator Hayes, his political rival. "Keep digging, Mark. And watch your back, someone's playing games."
Later, David met his wife, Ellen, for dinner. Her cool demeanor unsettled him. "You're spending a lot of time on Jack," she said, her voice sharp. "What about our family?"
David sighed. "He's my son, Ellen. I owe him and Clara."
Ellen's lips tightened. "Clara. Always Clara." She excused herself, leaving David alone with his thoughts. Had he pushed her too far?
At home, Jack Junior watched his father's latest speech on TV, Sarah Mitchell reporting in the background. Her questions about Hayes piqued his interest. He texted Jack, still in custody: "Heard about a journalist, Sarah Mitchell. She's asking about Dad's enemies. Could help you."
David's phone buzzed again—a tip from an anonymous source: "Check Jonas' files. He's not what he seems." David's heart raced. Was his trusted security chief hiding something, or was this another trap?
Jack Junior visited Jack in prison, worry etched on his face. The cell's dim light cast shadows on Jack's pale features; the surgery had taken its toll. "I got your text," Jack said, gripping Sarah's card. "This journalist—Sarah—she thinks I was framed."
Jack Junior nodded. "She's been digging into Senator Hayes. He has reasons to hurt Dad. A car followed me after I left your place last week. Something's not right."
Jack's eyes widened. "The note at home said, 'The truth will cost you.' You think it's connected?"
"Maybe," Jack Junior said. "Dad's pushing reforms Hayes hates. If someone set you up, they're targeting him through you."
Jack clenched his fists, torn between anger and hope. "I shot him, Junior. I wanted Mum to stop hurting. But that tape felt off. It was like someone wanted me to pull the trigger."
Jack Junior leaned closer. "Let's work with Sarah. She's at the security house tomorrow, checking for that hidden camera. I'll go with her."
Jack hesitated, feeling protective of his brother and Sarah. "Be careful. If Hayes is involved, he's powerful."
As Jack Junior left, he noticed a guard whispering to Marcus, Jack's cellmate. Suspicion flared. Was Marcus watching Jack? Outside, Jack Junior got into his car, only to see the same black sedan following him again. He pressed the gas, heart racing. Who was pursuing him, and what did they know about Jack's case?
Sarah Mitchell crouched in the security house, the venue from David's speech eerily quiet. Her flashlight swept over dusty equipment and landed on the hidden camera she had found days ago. Its lens pointed toward the podium, but it wasn't listed in Apex Solutions' logs. She snapped photos, heart racing. This could prove Jack's innocence.
Jack Junior joined her, his presence calming her. "Find anything?" he asked.
"Maybe," Sarah said, downloading the camera's data to her laptop. "If this shows someone else here, Jack's off the hook."
As they worked, Sarah's thoughts drifted to Jack. His confession felt raw, driven by love for his mother, but his eyes held a truth she couldn't ignore. She had felt a spark when their hands brushed in prison. Was she getting too close?
Her laptop pinged, revealing a partial video: a shadowy figure tampering with the official camera before Jack entered. "Gotcha," Sarah whispered. The figure's build matched a security guard tied to Apex and Senator Hayes.
Jack Junior's phone buzzed—Jack, using a smuggled call. "Sarah, any luck?"
"We found something," she said, her voice low. "A figure messing with the cameras. It's not you."
Jack exhaled. "Get that to Dad. But be careful—someone's watching me here."
As they packed up, a noise echoed outside—footsteps. Sarah's heart sank. Her apartment had been ransacked last night, with a note left: "Stop digging." She grabbed Jack Junior's arm. "We need to go. Now."
They slipped out the back, but headlights flared—an unmarked van blocking their path. Sarah's breath caught. Had Hayes' men found them, or was this a new enemy?