The Informant

Ive been in the personal shopping business for three years.

In those three years, Ive never missed a single receipt.

Every orders declaration record, tax payment certificate, and bank statementI organize and file them monthly.

These documents are neatly stacked in fourteen file boxes.

That day, I was in my twelve-square-meter warehouse, packing a bottle of SK-II Facial Treatment Essence for a client.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find eight people from Customs Investigations. Six in uniform, two with folders in hand.

The lead officer surveyed my small warehouse, a frown creasing his brow.

He asked if I was Jamie Hayes, stating that someone had reported me for tax evasion as a personal shopper, and requested my cooperation in an investigation.

I froze, bewildered, because I had always operated legally.

It took me half an hour to carry out all fourteen file boxes, one by one.

The lead officer flipped through a few pages, his expression subtly changing.

He looked at me, then lowered his voice, saying the informant's report was incredibly detailed. It even specified my weekly flight numbers to the airport.

A chill ran down my spine.

I realized that someone who could write such a report must know me intimately.

And my shopping routes, supply channels, and client list had only ever been shared with one person.

That person was my best friend of ten years, Sarah Miller.

The investigators meticulously cataloged every item in my warehouse.

Six boxes of Korean and Japanese skincare, four boxes of health supplements, two boxes of baby products.

Every single item had a corresponding purchase receipt, import declaration, and tax payment certificate.

I leaned against the wall, watching them, my heart pounding as if it wanted to escape my throat.

But I knew my books were clean.

Three years ago, when I first started, I spent a few hundred dollars on a cross-border e-commerce tax course.

I still remember the first thing the instructor said: "The biggest fear for a personal shopper isn't a lack of clients; it's having books that can't stand up to scrutiny."

From then on, I bought a small safe just for tax certificates.

Every payment, every customs declarationI photographed it for backup, locking the originals in the safe.

Other shoppers would laugh, "You're not running a corporation, why be so proper?"

I never explained, just kept doing my thing.

"What was the total declared value for this batch of goods?" the lead investigator asked.

"Eight thousand three hundred and forty-two dollars. The corresponding tax documents are in the seventh file box, the stack with the blue labels."

He flipped through and cross-referenced them, saying nothing.

A younger investigator beside him couldn't help but glance at me.

I read four words in his expression: much ado about nothing.

But a report was a report; the process had to be followed.

"Have you received any goods from an unknown source in the last month?"

"No. I only do self-sourcing and selling. I don't take on anyone else's distribution orders."

I paused. "However"

"However what?"

"Last month, my friend borrowed my business courier account to ship three batches of goods. She said her own account had hit its limit."

I opened my phone, pulled up the chat history, and handed it over.

"This is our conversation when she borrowed the account. I told her to label them herself and fill out the customs information. I didn't handle it."

The lead officer took the phone and examined it carefully.

"What's your friend's name?"

"Sarah Miller."

My throat tightened as I said her name.

Ten years.

High school desk mate, college roommate, then we both entered the personal shopping business after graduation.

She had grown bigger than me.

I stuck to legitimate channelslower profits, fewer but stable clients.

She played it fast and loose. Last month, she'd posted a photo of her new BMW X3 on social media.

I never asked questions.

The investigator took photos of my chat logs, then spent another half hour flipping through my file boxes.

As they were leaving, the lead officer turned back to me.

"Jamie, a heads-up: some details in that report aren't things an ordinary person would know. For example, your sourcing costs, your profit margins, even the location of your safe."

"Think about it. Who would know that information?"

After the door closed, I stood alone in the warehouse.

The SK-II was still on the table, the shipping bags unsealed.

The location of my safe.

I had only brought one person into this warehouse.

The day Sarah came to help me move some inventory, I personally poured her a fresh cup of coffee.

I didn't sleep that night.

I tossed and turned, wondering if I had it all wrong.

Maybe it was someone else? Maybe a competitor jealous of me?

But flight numbers, sourcing costs, safe locationthe intersection of these three pieces of information only pointed to Sarah.

At 2 AM, I opened her social media.

Her latest post was from six hours ago: omakase at a sushi restaurant, captioned "Treating myself after a long day."

The photo showed her wearing exquisite makeup. A man sat opposite her, only his cuff visible.

That navy Hugo Boss shirt. I recognized it.

It belonged to her boyfriend.

I scrolled down.

Three days ago: "Ladies, huge clearance on Japanese luxury makeup! SK-II Facial Treatment Essence is $400 off! DM me fast!"

The nine-grid photo collage was full of high-end skincare, neatly arranged on a table.

I zoomed in on the fifth photo.

In the bottom right corner, a small section of a cardboard box was visible.

A label from my business courier account was stuck to the box.

I recognized the tracking number.

It was one of the batches she shipped using my account last month.

I put down my phone and stared at the ceiling.

My mind was a mess, but one thing suddenly became terrifyingly clear: the goods she shipped using my account, and the goods I declared myself, went through the same customs inspection channel.

If there was an issue with her batch, I would be dragged down with her.

This was no coincidence.

At 9 AM the next morning, Sarah called.

"Jamie! I heard Customs investigated you? What happened?"

Her voice was filled with surprise and concern.

If it weren't for my discoveries last night, I would have believed her.

"Nothing serious. Routine check."

"I knew it! How could someone as careful as you have any problems? Do you want me to ask around? I know someone at a customs clearance company"

"No, thanks."

"Hey, don't be stubborn. Customs investigations are no joke. What if your goods get seized? What about your clients? If you need, I can help you ship some orders for now."

I gripped the phone, my nails digging into my palm.

I had only told my mom about the investigation.

"Sarah, how did you know I was being investigated?"

Silence on the other end for two seconds.

"Oh didn't you post about it on social media yesterday? Said your warehouse was temporarily not shipping orders"

"My social media posts are set to private. Only clients can see that one."

Another two seconds of silence.

"Must have been a client who screenshotted it for me? I don't quite remember."

"Oh. Alright then."

I hung up.

My palm was slick with sweat.

She was lying.

And it wasn't the first time.

I opened my laptop and pulled up all my cooperation records with her from the past three yearshow many times she borrowed my account, which goods she handled, the amounts, whether there were customs declarations.

It wasn't just my books that needed checking.

For the next week, I outwardly did nothing.

I replied to client messages as usual, and met Sarah for coffee as usual.

But every night, when I got home, I started organizing.

All the goods she shipped using my account over three years, seven batches in total.

The first four batches had records; the amounts were small, the largest being only about twelve hundred dollars.

But the last three batches were different.

These three were shipped between last October and this January, and I couldn't find the declared customs amounts for any of them.

Because she had said, "I'll fill out the customs forms myself, no need to bother you."

At the time, I thought she was being considerate.

Now, I realized she was being deliberate.

Wednesday lunchtime, I met her for lunch at the mall.

She was wearing a camel Max Mara coat. I recognized itit was $2600 on the official website. She'd posted it on social media last month.

"Jamie, you look so thin. The customs thing didn't get to you, did it?"

"I'm fine. My books are clean anyway."

"That's good, that's good." She picked up a piece of sashimi with her chopsticks. "Oh, by the way, that client of yours, Mrs. Chenthe one who buys three sets of Sulwhasoo every monthhas she stopped buying from you recently?"

My heart sank.

"How did you know?"

"She bought from me last week. Said you were being investigated and she didn't dare buy from you."

Sarah bit her chopstick and smiled. "Don't worry. Once your situation clears up, I'll give her back to you."

Give her back to me.

As if my clients were her borrowed possessions.

"Besides Mrs. Chen, who else has contacted you?"

"Just a few others. Some people are just scared of getting involved, you know? It's normal."

She looked down at her phone, missing my hand, clutching the chopsticks, trembling.

After getting home, I went through my client list, messaging them one by one to confirm.

The results chilled me to the bone.

Out of sixty-seven stable clients accumulated over three years, twenty-three had left.

Nineteen of them had switched to Sarah.

It wasn't because they were scared by the investigation.

Sarah had actively contacted them, saying, "Jamie probably won't get through this. Don't wait around, come to me. My prices are even lower."

A client named Sue screenshotted the messages for me.

The last line of Sarah's message to her was: "Trust me, she'll never find out."

I put down my phone.

No anger, just an indescribable chill, seeping from my spine all the way to the top of my head.

Ten years.

Ten years of friendship, apparently worth nineteen clients.

No, maybe it was worth more.

Perhaps from the very beginning, every step of this friendship was her getting closer to my client list.

I started replaying events.

Every incident I once took for granted now tasted different.

In my freshman year, she said her family was struggling, so I helped her get a part-time job as a personal shopper runner.

During the summer of my junior year, she said she wanted to learn the business. I gave her my meticulously organized list of Japanese pharmacies, popular product price lists, and a comparison of shipping companiesall of which had taken me half a year to compile.

After graduation, I took her to Tokyo three times, introducing her to all my suppliers.

The airfare for her first solo sourcing trip to Japan? I covered it.

Three hundred and forty dollars. She said she'd pay me back next month, but she never did.

I never pressed her for it either.

Later, her business grew.

She rented a proper office as a warehouse, hired two young women to help with packing and shipping, and registered a company.

I was happy for her.

Sometimes during our video calls at night, she'd be working late in her office, with a wall of shelves behind her, packed with goods.

Id be on my balcony at home, sticking shipping labels on six cardboard boxes.

She'd say, "Jamie, why are you still playing so small? Why don't you come work for my company? I'll help you scale up."

Every time, I'd smile and say no need.

I was used to doing things myself. My accounts were clear, and my mind was at ease.

But while she said she'd "help me scale up," what she was actually doing was poaching my clients.

I compiled a timeline.

Last July: I told her Mrs. Chen bought three sets of Sulwhasoo every month.

Last August: Mrs. Chen placed her first order with Sarah.

Last September: She borrowed my courier account to ship her first batch of goods.

Last October to January this year: She intensively borrowed my account to ship three large batches of goods.

This February: Someone reported me for tax evasion.

The timeline was too perfectly aligned.

She first poached my clients to build her base, then used my account to ship potentially problematic goods, and finally sent in a report to crush me.

If Customs found issues with the goods shipped under my account, they would come after me.

If my business was ruined by the investigation, my clients would have no choice but to go to her.

Three birds with one stone.

I sat in front of my computer, my hands resting on the keyboard, motionless for a long time.

Outside, the sky was a dull gray. It looked like rain.

I didn't cry.

I just felt incredibly tired.

A weariness that seeped from my bones.

The customs investigation continued.

I was asked to provide supplementary materials at any time, but they didn't seize my goods.

Officer Frank, the lead investigator, sounded calm when he called to inform me.

"Jamie, we're verifying your documents. Initially, they look quite standard. But until the process is complete, your business courier account is temporarily frozen."

"Okay. How long will it be frozen?"

"Hard to say. It depends on the situation."

A frozen courier account meant I couldn't ship anything.

My clients couldn't wait.

Within a week, another eleven clients left.

Sarah's social media grew increasingly lively.

She had a new batch of limited edition Japanese face masks, priced 30% cheaper than mine.

I looked at the price and did some quick math.

With proper customs declaration and tax payments, that price would make no profit at all.

Unless she wasn't declaring the full value.

Or not declaring at all.