Part 3
Evan stared at the pavement for a long moment before speaking. He looked like a man trying to find the exact words to defuse a bomb.
“When I woke up in the hospital,” Evan began, his voice steady but quiet, “they told me the preliminary police report placed me at fault for the collision. They said I lost control and crossed the intersection.”
“And?” Natalie asked, keeping her guard up. “The roads were pure ice. It happens.”
“I was going twenty-five miles per hour,” Evan said, looking up to meet her eyes. “Because of the ice. If your husband was also doing twenty-five, like he stated in the police report, the impact wouldn’t have practically folded both our cars in half.”
Natalie frowned, a reflexive defense of her husband rising to her lips, but it died before she could speak. A quiet, uncomfortable truth settled in her stomach. Peter had a notorious lead foot. He constantly complained about speed limits, treating them as mere suggestions, and he had a glovebox full of old traffic citations to prove it.
“Your husband claims he had the green light and that he was driving cautiously,” Evan continued. “Natalie, he ran a solid red light. He blew right through it. And he wasn’t sober.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction. Her heart gave a sudden, hard thump against her ribs. “Peter has his flaws, but he would never drive drunk in a winter storm.”
“The breathalyzer at the scene miraculously disappeared from the official record,” Evan said, leaning forward slightly. “Do you know an Officer Stan? Short guy, dark hair? Works for the local precinct?”
The blood drained from Natalie’s face. Stan. Peter’s buddy from high school. The two of them played poker together every other Friday. Stan was the one who had called her from the scene of the accident, using Peter’s phone.
“Stan tried to write it up as my DUI,” Evan said, seeing the recognition in her eyes. “He was ready to pin the whole thing on me. The only reason I’m not sitting in a jail cell right now is because my older sister is a paralegal. She showed up at the intersection while the ambulances were still there and started recording everything on her phone, forcing them to follow protocol. But she couldn’t stop them from losing my dashcam.”
Natalie stared at him, the suburban street noise fading into a low hum. The pieces were clicking together with terrifying precision. The suddenness of Peter’s departure that night. Stan handling the paperwork. The way Peter never wanted to discuss the legal details of the crash with her, always shutting her down by reminding her it was her fault he was out there in the first place.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.
“My dashcam was ripped off the windshield during the impact,” Evan said. “The police claim they never found it. But I know your husband’s friend was digging through my car before my sister got there. I am facing a massive civil suit from Peter’s insurance, and possible criminal charges. If Peter or Stan kept that camera, or even just the memory card inside it, it’s the only proof I have that I didn’t cause this.”
He looked at her, his expression raw. “I need you to look for it.”
“You want me to search my husband’s belongings for evidence against him?”
“I know what I’m asking,” Evan said quietly. “But if I go down for this, my life is over. Please. Just see if he has it.”
Natalie looked away, watching a school bus turn the corner at the end of the block. If Evan was telling the truth, Peter had not only caused the accident through his own recklessness, but he had systematically used his injuries to mentally break her, using her guilt as a leash. A cold, unfamiliar clarity began to spread through her chest.
“We don’t live in our apartment right now,” she said slowly. “We’re staying at my mother-in-law’s house. Most of his things are packed away in boxes, or in her spare room.”
“Will you at least try?”
Natalie picked up her purse, her knuckles white around the leather strap. “I’ll see what I can find. I don’t have your number.”
Evan quickly recited his phone number, which she typed into her contacts under a generic student’s name. She stood up without another word and walked toward her car. For the first time in six months, the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on her shoulders felt lighter. It was replaced by something much sharper.
When Natalie unlocked the front door of Lorraine’s house, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and floral air freshener hit her instantly. She stepped into the narrow hallway and slipped off her shoes.
“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” Lorraine’s voice cut from the kitchen archway. The older woman was leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed tight over her floral blouse.
Natalie ignored her, walking toward the kitchen to put her purse down.
The whir of an electric wheelchair motor signaled Peter’s arrival from the living room. He rolled into the doorway, his brow deeply furrowed. “Did you get the crab legs?”
“No,” Natalie said, turning to face him. She kept her voice perfectly flat. “I didn’t.”
“Are you kidding me?” Peter threw his hands up in exasperation. “I sit in this house all day, staring at the walls, and you can’t do one simple thing to make my life a little more bearable?”
“I didn’t buy them because we don’t have the money, Pete,” she said calmly. “My tutoring check paid the electric bill. Which is exceptionally high, considering you leave the television and the central air running all day.”
“Oh, so now you’re throwing money in his face?” Lorraine stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “After you put him in that chair? You owe him, Natalie. You owe this family.”
“And who was that guy you were talking to outside the school?”
Natalie shifted her gaze. Mike, Peter’s older brother, was standing at the top of the basement stairs, a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. He wore a smirking, self-satisfied expression.
“I saw you talking to some guy on a bench,” Mike offered, looking at Peter. “Looked pretty cozy. Standing real close.”
“A parent,” Natalie said, not missing a beat. “Asking about his son’s piano recital.”
“You’re a liar,” Lorraine spat, taking another step toward her. “You cripple my son, and now you’re out running around with other men? In my own home, I have to watch you disrespect him?”
A week ago, Natalie would have crumbled. She would have apologized, burst into tears, and retreated to her room to mentally tally her failures. But the image of the police report, of Stan the cop, of Peter speeding through a red light, anchored her to the floor like iron.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Natalie said. The absolute stillness in her voice made Lorraine stop walking. “I pay the mortgage on this house. I pay for the groceries, the utilities, and the internet you all use. If I hear one more word of disrespect from any of you—just one—I will pack my bags and walk out that door. And all of my financial support will walk out with me. Do you understand?”
The kitchen went dead silent. Peter stared at her, his mouth slightly open. Lorraine blinked, visibly taken aback by the sudden shift in the power dynamic. Even Mike lowered his beer, the smirk sliding off his face.
“Do you understand?” Natalie repeated, looking directly at Peter.
“Yeah,” Peter muttered, breaking eye contact first. “We get it.”
“Good.” Natalie picked up her purse. “I’m going to take a shower. I expect it to be quiet when I get out.”
She walked down the hall and locked herself in the bathroom. She turned the shower on, letting the water run hot, but she didn’t undress. Instead, she sat on the edge of the closed toilet lid, staring at the tiled wall. Her hands were shaking, but not from fear.
She had to find that memory card.