She Weaponized the Internet, I Weaponized the Law

On the other end of the line, my best friend, Joan Hart, was in tears.

"A-Andrea, don't you think it's strange? When you came over last weekend, I opened the safe and showed you the gold bars. It's only been a few days... How could they just disappear?"

"Don't panic, Joan," I said, trying to keep her calm. "Did you call the police? And what did Dylan say?"

She sniffled. "I did. And Dylan's out of town on business…"

Away on business again. Her husband, Dylan Thorne, was never reliable when it mattered.

Joan's sobbing broke off at just the right moment. "The police said it might be someone I know. Andrea… Who do you think it could be?"

"Don't worry, and don't overthink it. I'll come by tomorrow and help you sort things out," I said softly.

"Okay… You're still the best."

After I hung up, I couldn't shake the feeling that Joan had been hinting at something between the lines. But I suppressed the unease and went back to the post.

In that short span of time, dozens more comments had appeared.

One read, "OP, think it through. Was your friend acting off that night?"

Another person wrote, "Does she know the code to your safe?"

Under a comment suspicious of her best friend, the person who posted replied, "I don't want to doubt her. We've known each other for eight years, after all. We're basically like sisters."

But then she added, almost as an afterthought, "Though… She did seem to really like my gold bracelet. She even tried it on and wore it for a while."

That single reply set off a wave of speculation. A netizen wrote, "That's creepy when you think about it! Sounds like she was casing the place."

Another comment read, "OP, you're way too naive. It was obviously your friend!"

I took a deep breath, scrolled back to the top, and clicked open the photo again. The hand pointing at the safe bore a scar, about an inch long.

In an instant, my throat tightened.

One summer during university, Joan and I went hiking in the hills outside the city. I had slipped while taking photos, half my body dangling over the edge.

Joan had lunged forward and held onto my wrist for dear life. That was when a jagged rock sliced into her hand.

It had taken five stitches to close the wound. Her face had gone pale from the pain, yet she still managed to smile at me.

"I'll never forget this scar," I had said through tears.

The following year, Joan's parents died in a car accident, leaving her all alone. I brought her home, and my mom took her in as her own daughter.

Over the years, Mom cooked for her, bought her clothes, and even paid her tuition. She loved Joan like her own.

And now, that same hand left a new comment. "What hurts me most isn't even losing the gold bars. It's the bracelet I kept at the very back of the safe…

"It's the only thing my mom left me. She knew exactly what it meant to me. So, if she really took it…"

As I read that, I felt a rush of emotions.

Last week, Joan caught Dylan flirting with another woman. They'd had a huge fight, and he'd stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

At the time, she had called me, sobbing and begging me to come over and stay with her. But now, she didn't mention any of it.

In an instant, the comment section was filled with sympathy and outrage.

"Sending hugs, OP. That kind of 'best friend' is disgusting!"

"Stealing something your mom left you? What kind of person does that?"

I couldn't hold back anymore. Switching to a burner account, I commented, "Is it possible your husband was in on it with someone else?"