Chapter 3 - The Fatal Question
Within seven minutes, the distinct wail of emergency sirens cut through the quiet neighborhood. Two county sheriff cruisers turned the corner, red and blue lights washing over the pristine suburban houses. Tires crunched over gravel and glass as the deputies parked bumper-to-bumper, effectively sealing off the driveway.
Mom let out a horrified gasp and buried her face in her hands. "You idiot! You've ruined Mason's life! He has a promotion pending at the logistics firm!"
Vanessa quickly pocketed her phone, smoothing down her designer dress, while Mason stood by his truck, crossing his arms and assuming a calm, nonchalant posture. He genuinely believed that our mother's influence and a united family front would bully me into silence, just like it had done since childhood.
Two deputies stepped out: a seasoned, gray-haired sergeant named Miller, and a younger deputy taking notes on a clipboard. Sergeant Miller took in the scene with wide eyes—the crushed radiator, the steaming coolant, the shattered tempered glass covering the driveway, and the heavy tire iron resting against the curb.
"Who called dispatch?" Sergeant Miller asked, his hand casually resting near his utility belt.
"I did, Officer," I said, stepping forward. "I own the black SUV. It was vandalized and intentionally rammed fifteen minutes ago."
Before I could say another syllable, Mom pushed herself between me and the sergeant, putting on a display of trembling, tearful motherly concern. "Oh, Officer, thank goodness you're here! My younger son, Ethan, is just terribly confused and in shock. We had an awful neighborhood vandal come speeding down the street! A rogue driver in a dark truck sideswiped his car, threw something through the windshield, and sped away! Mason grabbed a tire iron to chase them off, but it was too late! Ethan is traumatized and lashing out at his own brother!"
Mason nodded vigorously, adopting an earnest, wounded expression. "That’s right, Deputy. I tried to defend his car, but the guy tore out of here toward the main avenue. Ethan is just in shock. He's trying to blame me because we had a minor disagreement earlier about family matters. It was an outside vandal, one hundred percent."
Vanessa chimed in with crocodile tears. "We were terrifyingly close to getting hurt, Officer. Mason is a hero for trying to stop the perpetrator. Ethan just wants insurance money, so he's causing a scene."
I stood silently, saying nothing. I didn't interrupt. I let them spin their web, digging the pit deeper and deeper with every theatrical sentence.
Sergeant Miller listened patiently, nodding as if he believed every word. He glanced at the crushed hood, then at the rear bumper of Mason's F-250, which had distinct streaks of black paint matching my SUV's clear coat. Then the sergeant walked over to my shattered driver's window and peered inside at the dashboard.
He turned back around, facing Mom, Mason, and Vanessa.
"So," Sergeant Miller said, his voice flat, dry, and razor-sharp. "You three are swearing under official police record that a hit-and-run driver did this, and Mason was merely an innocent bystander trying to help?"
"Yes, sir, I swear on the family Bible," Mom said earnestly, pressing a hand to her chest.
Sergeant Miller tilted his head, pulled out a small penlight, and pointed directly at the little circular glass lens mounted high behind my rearview mirror—and then to the matching lens mounted on the rear hatch.
May you like
"Then can one of you explain to me," Sergeant Miller asked, his gaze locking directly onto Mason, "why this vehicle's commercial 4K cloud-synced dashcam has been blinking blue and red, actively transmitting front, interior, and 360-degree exterior live feeds directly to a secure remote cloud server for the last twenty minutes?"
All color drained from Mason's face. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out.
