My father left, half asleep. My mother turned on the light and, seeing a fresh scratch on the bumper, put her hand to her mouth. Lucía spoke rapidly: a roundabout, rain, a collision, a cyclist who fell, people screaming, and she… she left. “I was scared,” she kept repeating, “I didn’t know what to do.”
Instead of asking about the injured man, my mother grabbed my shoulders tightly.
“You have no future anyway!” she shrieked. “Say you were driving!”
I took a deep breath. I looked at my father, who wasn’t saying anything, and then at Lucía, who was avoiding my eyes. I remained calm and asked slowly:
—Lucía… did you cause the accident and flee?
She raised her chin, hurtful.
“Yes. So what? Who’s going to believe you?” he spat. “You look like a criminal.”
That was enough. I took out my phone, unlocked the screen, and the silence became solid.
“Open the courthouse,” I said. “I have the evidence.”
