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?
Every single morning for the last ninety days, Daniel had woken up, kissed my forehead, put on his tailored grey suit, grabbed his leather briefcase, and backed that black SUV out of our driveway. He kissed us goodbye that morning, promising to be home for dinner. He didn’t tell me his commute would involve running down our daughter and abandoning his car. I thought I was married to a family man; I didn’t know I was sleeping next to a fugitive.
Where had he been going? What had he been doing? And why, dear God why, did his car violently strike our daughter and leave her bleeding in the street?
I turned my head and looked through the large glass window into the ICU room. Emma was still sleeping deeply, her chest rising and falling in a steady, medically induced rhythm.
