Jake didn’t think twice when his friend Ryan offered him the car for the weekend. His own was in the shop, and Ryan was always generous. “Just don’t wreck it,” Ryan had laughed, tossing him the keys.
At first, everything felt normal. The car ran smoothly, the radio worked fine, and Jake enjoyed the freedom of having wheels again. But on Sunday afternoon, while packing up after a beach trip, he popped the trunk — and froze.
Inside, half-hidden under a blanket, was a small metal box.
At first, Jake thought it was just some kind of tool kit. But when he lifted the blanket, his stomach tightened. The box wasn’t dusty or forgotten. It was locked. And taped to the top was a folded piece of paper.
Jake pulled it off and read the words scrawled in Ryan’s messy handwriting:
“Do not open.”
His pulse quickened. He glanced around the parking lot, suddenly paranoid. Why would Ryan leave something like this in the trunk? Why tell him not to open it — unless it held something terrible?
Jake’s curiosity battled with dread. He told himself to close the trunk, to forget it. But his hands moved on their own. He tugged at the lock. It didn’t budge.
Finally, with shaking fingers, he used the tire iron to pry it open. The lid popped, and Jake’s breath caught in his throat.
Inside were stacks of photographs. Dozens, maybe hundreds. They were of people — strangers. Taken from odd angles, some through windows, some on dark streets at night. Faces frozen in surprise, fear, or completely unaware they were being watched.
Jake’s blood ran cold.
One photo in particular made his knees buckle. It was of him. Taken outside his apartment just a week ago.
The box slipped from his hands, photos scattering across the asphalt. He stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest. His friend — the man who had lent him the car without hesitation — had been watching him.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Ryan.
“How’s the car?”
Jake’s hands shook so violently he nearly dropped the phone. He looked around, feeling eyes on him from somewhere unseen. He realized then that borrowing the car hadn’t been an act of kindness. It had been a setup.
Ryan wanted him to find the box.
Jake slammed the trunk shut, his mind reeling. He didn’t know whether to call the police, confront Ryan, or run as far as he could. But one thing was certain — nothing about their friendship would ever be the same again.
Because some secrets aren’t meant to be borrowed.
