Chapter 3 - WHO DID YOU HIT?
I knew the truck had hit something before I knew it had hit someone.
That is not instinct.
That is training.
The damage pattern was wrong for a mailbox or fence.
The paint transfer was low on one side.
The bumper indentation had a rounded angle.
The windshield had no starring, thank God, but there were traces near the grille that made my stomach go cold.
Dad kept talking.
Too fast.
“You were driving home from work. You swerved because there was something in the road. You got scared. You called us. That’s all.”
I stared at him.
“You have a script.”
Mom grabbed my arm.
“Elena, listen to your father.”
“Where is Mateo’s car?”
No one answered.
“Where did this happen?”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“Elena.”
“Who did he hit?”
Mateo rolled his eyes.
“You always go straight to drama.”
Police lights were getting closer.
The sirens had stopped, which meant they were near enough not to need them.
That was when I slid my phone into record.
Not openly.
Inside my coat pocket.
People think recordings catch dramatic confessions because villains monologue.
Sometimes they catch ordinary arrogance.
Sometimes that is enough.
Mateo stepped into my space and said the sentence that would later play in a room full of people who no longer had the luxury of pretending.
“Yeah, I left. Nobody will believe you over me.”
There it was.
Not an accident.
A leaving.
A person somewhere else.
My voice felt like it belonged to another woman when I said:
“Perfect.”
Dad’s face tightened.
“What did you do?”
“What you should have done,” I said. “Documented him.”
Mom stared at me like I had betrayed them.
That was the sickness of my family.
Mateo could hit someone and run.
Dad could ask me to lie.
Mom could shove me toward police lights.
But I was the traitor because I refused to make their story easier.
The first patrol car turned into the driveway.
Mateo took one step back.
For the first time, he looked young.
Not innocent.
May you like
Young.
A man who had been protected so long that consequence still surprised him.
