Detective Miller didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a comforting platitude. He opened the manila folder and pulled out a single, high-resolution photograph. He held it out for me to see.
It was a picture of a car parked in a desolate, graffiti-covered alleyway. It was a late-model, black SUV. The front bumper was heavily dented, the paint scraped away to reveal the raw metal underneath. The driver’s side of the windshield was completely shattered, the glass fractured into a massive, terrifying spiderweb pattern.
“A patrol unit found this vehicle abandoned an hour ago, about two miles from the scene of the accident,” Miller said, his eyes watching my face intently. “The damage profile matches the forensic debris left at the intersection where Emma was hit. We also found traces of blood on the grill that we are expediting for a DNA match.”
I stared at the photograph. My breath caught in my throat. I recognized the car immediately. It was the exact make, model, and year. I recognized the small, faded bumper sticker on the back window.
“That’s… that’s Daniel’s car,” I whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the photo. “That’s my husband’s car. But… that’s absurd. Daniel is at the office. He’s an accountant. He never leaves his desk before six o’clock.”
I took a step back, my spine hitting the cold wall of the hallway. “Someone must have stolen it. Oh my god, did the person who stole it hit Emma?”
Detective Miller didn’t blink. He lowered the photograph.
“Ms. Sarah,” Miller said gently, delivering the words that would fundamentally shatter my reality forever. “We called your husband’s firm thirty minutes ago to inform him of the vehicle recovery. The HR director informed us that Daniel Evans hasn’t worked there for a while. He was officially fired for gross misconduct three months ago.”
My heart seemed to stop completely. The blood rushed from my head, leaving me dizzy and nauseous.
Three months?
