By 7:00 AM, my sorrow had calcified into a cold, unbreakable rage.
I drove straight to Oak Creek High School.
The morning air was crisp and painfully normal. Students were laughing in the parking lot, hoisting backpacks over their shoulders, completely oblivious to the fact that blood had been spilled on the asphalt just twelve hours prior.
I didn’t go to my classroom. I marched straight to the administrative wing and pushed my way through the heavy oak doors of Principal Davis’s office.
I froze halfway across the carpet.
Principal Davis was sitting behind his massive desk, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Sitting in the plush leather guest chairs were three men. One was Arthur Pendelton, the shark-like lawyer from the hospital. The second was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a perfectly tailored suit and silver hair—Richard Vance, Brody’s father.
And standing casually by the window, wearing his letterman jacket and sipping from a plastic water bottle, was Brody.
Brody looked at me. A slow, sickening smirk crawled across his face.
“Ms. Higgins,” Principal Davis stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I… we were just discussing the tragic incident from yesterday.”
“The hit-and-run,” I corrected fiercely, glaring at Brody. “The hit-and-run committed by him.”
Richard Vance stood up. He was an imposing figure, a man used to buying his way out of every inconvenience in his life. “Clara, is it? We are all deeply saddened by your mother’s accident. It is a tragedy that the district doesn’t maintain safer crosswalks. However, my son had nothing to do with it. Throwing his name around is not only hysterical, it is legally actionable.”
“I saw him,” I spat, taking a step toward Brody. Brody didn’t even flinch; he just took another sip of his water. “I saw his car. I saw Trent in the passenger seat.”
“My client was in a 2004 Honda Accord, driving to a team dinner at the time of the incident,” Pendelton the lawyer intervened smoothly, opening a sleek leather folder. “We have timestamped text messages from his teammates confirming this. We also have the receipt from European Auto Masters showing the Porsche was towed in for transmission repair yesterday morning.”
“You paid them off! You faked a receipt!” I shouted, my voice echoing in the quiet office.
Principal Davis stood up, his face flushing deep red. “Clara! That is enough. You will control yourself, or I will ask you to leave.”
I stared at Davis, deeply betrayed. He had known my mother for two years. He had praised her dedication. Now, he was folding like a cheap tent because a wealthy donor was glaring at him.
“She was wearing a neon vest. She had a stop sign. He sped up,” I said, my voice dropping to a trembling whisper.
“A tragic mistake by some unknown driver,” Richard Vance said coldly. “If you continue to defame my son, Clara, I will ensure the school board reviews your employment. I will not have an unstable, slanderous teacher instructing Oak Creek students.”
“Clara, I need you to go home,” Principal Davis said softly, refusing to meet my eyes. “Take a leave of absence. Focus on your mother. Let the police handle the investigation.”
I looked at Brody one last time. He gave me a tiny, nearly imperceptible wink.
I turned and walked out of the office, my nails digging into the palms of my hands so hard I almost broke the skin.
I couldn’t just sit back. The police were taking the Vance family at their word because it was easier. If the security camera was pointed at the sky, there had to be some other physical evidence left behind. Cars don’t strike solid objects without taking damage.
I went out the back doors and walked down to the main intersection in the parking lot. The yellow police tape had already been removed. The shattered stop sign was gone, likely tossed in a dumpster by the janitorial staff.
I stood exactly where my mother had been standing, trying to recreate the angle. The car had struck her, swerved, and clipped the base of the nearest light pole on its way out.
I walked over to the thick concrete base of the light pole. My heart leaped in my chest.
There was a fresh, deep scrape on the concrete, and embedded in the scrape was a thick smear of metallic blue paint.
Blue. Not silver.
I stared at it, my breath catching in my throat. I knelt down and rubbed my finger over the paint transfer. It was fresh. It flaked away under my touch.
Blue.
Was I wrong? Had the setting sun distorted the color of the car? Had I been so primed to expect Brody’s silver Porsche that my mind simply filled in the blanks? Doubt began to seep into my mind like poison. The Honda Accord that Trent owned—was it blue? I couldn’t remember.
I pulled out my phone and took a dozen pictures of the paint scrape, documenting every angle. I felt a sudden surge of panicked hope. If I could prove the blue paint belonged to Trent’s car, their entire alibi would collapse.
I practically sprinted to the teacher’s lounge and logged into the district’s parking registry database. Teachers had limited access to look up student license plates in case someone parked in our designated spots. I frantically typed in Trent Miller’s name.
The screen loaded.
Vehicle Registration: 2004 Honda Accord. Color: White.