The beam hit something in the grass, and a bright, blinding reflection bounced back into my eyes.
I stopped. I squinted, moving the light slightly to the left.
Half buried in the cold soil, just behind where my mother had been standing, was a small object. At first, I thought it was a piece of trash—a discarded candy wrapper or a broken reflector from a bicycle.
I knelt down in the damp grass and picked it up.
It was a jagged, stiff piece of plastic, about half the size of a matchbox. The material was a thick, high-quality reflective yellow vinyl. One side of it was violently torn, the edges sharp and splintered, proving it had been violently ripped away from a larger piece.
My heart began to race. I rubbed my thumb over the dirt on the plastic, bringing my phone flashlight closer.
Printed across the bottom edge of the fragment was a partial black barcode. Just below the barcode, pressed deeply into the vinyl so it couldn’t be scratched off, was a clear serial number.
#V-8902
I stared at the numbers. The breath completely vanished from my lungs.
I knew this material. I knew this color.
At the beginning of every school year, the administration issued parking passes. The staff received blue placards to hang from their rearview mirrors. The general students received green stickers.
But there was a third tier. A tier reserved for the elite.
The students who paid premium donations—the kids whose parents practically owned the school—were granted VIP Parking Permits. Those permits allowed them to park in the reserved row right next to the principal’s office, saving them the walk across the massive campus.
The VIP permits were made of thick, heavy-duty reflective yellow vinyl. They didn’t hang from the mirror. They were meant to be permanently adhered to the bottom left corner of the driver’s windshield with industrial adhesive.
I flipped the fragment over. The back was coated in a sticky, grey residue that was currently coated in dirt.
My mind snapped the pieces together with devastating clarity.
When Brody accelerated into my mother, the heavy metal pole of the STOP sign hadn’t just struck her. It had struck the car. The pole must have whipped backward, violently striking the bottom corner of his windshield before bouncing off.
It didn’t leave paint. But it had struck with enough force to shatter the windshield right where the VIP permit was adhered, ripping a tiny piece of the thick plastic away and sending it fluttering into the grass.
They couldn’t hide this. They could hide the car in an out-of-town shop. They could delete the camera footage. They could bribe witnesses. But they hadn’t realized a piece of his permit was lying in the dirt.
I gripped the jagged yellow plastic in my trembling hand. I had him. I finally had him.
“Ms. Higgins.”
The voice came from the shadows behind me. Cold. Amused. Arrogant.
I gasped, spinning around, dropping the flashlight but desperately clenching my fist around the plastic fragment.
Standing on the asphalt edge, stepping out of the gloom of the unlit parking aisle, was Brody Vance.
He was wearing his blue and white Oak Creek varsity jacket, his gym bag slung casually over one shoulder. Flanking him on either side were Trent and Chloe. They must have just finished late swim practice. The athletic wing doors were propped open in the distance.
The three of them stepped onto the grass, forming a loose, imposing semi-circle around me.
“What are you doing crawling around in the dirt, Ms. Higgins?” Brody asked, his voice dripping with condescension. He took a slow step forward. The height difference was staggering. He was over six feet tall, broad and muscular. I felt incredibly small.
“I was getting my mother’s belongings,” I said, my voice shaking despite my desperate attempt to keep it steady. I shoved my closed fist deep into my coat pocket, concealing the yellow plastic.
Chloe sneered, crossing her arms. “Your mom shouldn’t have been in the middle of the road. Everyone knows she was practically blind. It was her own fault.”
“Shut up,” I snapped, adrenaline spiking through my veins.
Brody held up a hand, silencing Chloe. He stared at me, his eyes dropping to my coat pocket. He was arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. He had noticed my sudden defensive movement.
“My dad’s lawyer told you to drop it,” Brody said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful sarcasm. It suddenly sounded very cold, and very dangerous. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home. The police already closed the file. There’s no evidence. Just an old woman who slipped and fell.”
“She didn’t fall,” I said, taking a step back as Trent cracked his knuckles. “You hit her. You sped up.”
“You have no proof of that,” Brody said softly. He took another step forward. The distance between us was less than three feet now. I could smell the chlorine on his skin. “So whatever you just picked up out of the grass… I think you should hand it over.”