“I was at the gala at the Grand Hotel,” said Chloé, rolling her eyes as if remembering something was a chore. “I took your car because mine was blocked by the valet. I drank… I don’t know, four martinis? Maybe a few shots of tequila with the senator’s son?” Automobilesand vehicles
“So you were intoxicated beyond the legal limit,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Of course,” she blurted out. “And then I was taking the shortcut through Highland Park. Corner of 4th and Main. The guy on the bike… he was right there. I hit him. He went over the hood—I saw his face hit the glass. I heard a crack, like a dry branch snapping.”
“And you didn’t stop,” I pressed, my voice like a scalpel. “Why didn’t you stop, Chloe?”
“Because I have a career to think about!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the quiet suburban night. “Why are you acting so strangely? Just memorize the lines! You were driving, you were distracted by your phone, you hit it. You panicked. End of story.”
“Did you check if he was breathing?” I asked, my eyes sinking into his. Dictionariesand encyclopedias
“No,” Chloe said disdainfully, pulling a piece of lint from her dress. “I didn’t mean to get blood on my shoes. I just wanted to go home. Mom, make her stop looking at me like that. It’s creepy.”
Beatrice entered, her voice muffled. “Elena, stop the interrogation. Just get in the driver’s seat and drive the car back to the street. We’ll call 911 and say you just arrived and were hysterical.”
“So,” I summarized, my voice cutting through the night air like a guillotine blade. “To be clear: you, Chloe Vance, admit to driving a government-registered vehicle while under the influence of alcohol, hitting a pedestrian at the corner of 4th and Main, fleeing the scene of a crime , and now you’re conspiring with Beatrice Vance to obstruct justice by framing a third party for the crime.”
“Yes, yes, whatever! My God, you’re so dramatic!” Chloe shouted. “Just take responsibility! You’re a failure! It’s the only thing you’re good at! You have no future anyway!”
