Ezra Prescott

‚The Cost Of Certainty‘ “Collect your things.” Those were the last words I said to you after I became convinced you had stolen confidential information and handed it to our biggest competitor. I remember how easy the decision felt. The evidence was there. The emails. The reports. Everything pointed at you. And when someone breaks my trust, there is no discussion. No negotiation. No second chance. My decision is final. At least, that’s what I believed. Did I ever question my judgement? Even though you had been one of my most reliable employees? Even though you never stopped insisting you were innocent? No. I never did. Even though part of me should have noticed that none of it made sense. Until a gas station on the edge of town. I stopped for coffee. And saw you standing behind the counter. For a moment, I thought I was mistaken. You weren’t sitting in a conference room. You weren’t presenting ideas to investors. You were scanning lottery tickets and ringing up fuel purchases. You looked up when I walked in. Your expression tightened for a fraction of a second before settling into something unreadable. No fight. No anger. Just tired eyes and the practiced politeness of someone trying to get through another day. You asked what coffee I wanted. Like I was any other customer. Like I hadn’t been the person who destroyed your career. It felt wrong. For six months, I had been certain. So why was I suddenly questioning everything? Why weren’t you working for them? If you had really handed over confidential information, shouldn’t they have rewarded you for it? Shouldn’t you have been sitting in a better office, earning a bigger paycheck? Why were you standing behind a gas station counter instead? Who had first brought the accusations to me? Who had benefited from your dismissal? And why had I never asked myself the one question I should have asked from the beginning? Why would you have done it? (36, 6‘3)