Chapter 1 - The Scent of Gunpowder and Perfume
The cold metal of the handcuffs had barely warmed against my raw, swollen wrists when Officer Miller unlocked them. The metallic click sounded louder than the crickets vibrating across the humid Peoria grass. Inside the front hallway, the distant wail of three-week-old Arlo cut through the screen door like a jagged blade. My breasts throbbed with the agonizing heaviness of delayed engorgement, milk leaking through my thin cotton nursing tank in dark, embarrassing circles. I didn't care. The numbness spreading through my chest had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the two women standing on the porch step above me.
My mother, Beverly, held her hand over her throat in an exquisite performance of maternal heartbreak. She had spent thirty years perfecting that look—the noble, self-sacrificing matriarch burdened by an ungrateful eldest daughter. But her fingers were trembling so violently that the lace fringe of her dusty-pink robe fluttered against her collarbone. Beside her, Kenzie had shrunk into herself. My sister was twenty-four, blonde, petite, and universally adored by everyone who had never shared a bedroom with her. Her wet hair clung to the sides of her neck, releasing sweet ribbons of expensive vanilla body mist that completely failed to cover the underlying sourness of stale vodka and scorched airbag propellant.
""Officer, please,"" Beverly started, stepping down until she was directly in Officer Miller’s line of sight. ""Marisa has postpartum psychosis. I am certain of it. She doesn't realize what she's doing. You saw her phone—apps can be manipulated, timers can be edited after the fact! My daughter needs a psychiatric evaluation, not to be let loose while she endangers her child!""
Miller didn't even look up as he tucked his radio mic back into his shoulder epaulet. His partner, Officer Vance, had already moved down the gravel driveway toward my battered Honda Accord, which sat tilted against the curb two blocks down the street like a dead animal.
""Ma'am, step aside,"" Miller said, his tone utterly devoid of the small-town politeness he’d displayed ten minutes earlier. He pointed his heavy Maglite at Kenzie. ""Young lady, keep your hands where I can see them. Do not move toward that door.""
""Mom!"" Kenzie shrieked. It was the same shrill, entitled whine she used when I wouldn't let her borrow my high school graduation shoes or my car keys. ""Tell him! He can't talk to me like this! I have an exam at eight o'clock! I have clinical rotations at St. Francis!""
""Officer Vance is pulling the dash and seat telemetry right now,"" Miller stated flatly, his dark eyes fixed on Kenzie's face. ""The driver’s seat is pulled so far forward against the steering column that my partner, who is five-foot-nine, couldn't slide his knees under the dashboard. Ms. Marisa Dunleavy is nearly six feet tall. Her knees would have been crushed against the steering column on impact. Furthermore, there is makeup transferred onto the canvas of the steering wheel airbag. Foundation that matches your sister's shade, not Marisa's bare skin.""
The silence that followed was suffocating. Across the street, the porch light of the Henderson family flicked on, casting a harsh yellow glare across our drama. Old Mrs. Henderson was parted behind her living room curtains, watching.
""And like I said,"" Miller added, his voice dropping into a register that made the hairs on my arms stand up, ""the vehicle on Knoxville didn't just clip a parked sedan. There was a passenger inside. Seventeen-year-old Chloe Martinez. She took a direct blunt-force trauma to the temporal bone when your front bumper crushed the rear passenger quarter-panel. She is currently in critical condition at OSF Saint Francis Medical Center with an open craniotomy. If she doesn't pull through sunrise, whoever was behind that wheel isn't looking at a reckless hit-and-run. They are looking at vehicular homicide.""
Kenzie’s knees buckled. She would have hit the cedar porch planks if Beverly hadn't caught her beneath the armpits. A dry, pathetic gag tore out of my sister's throat. ""I didn't see anyone,"" she sobbed into my mother's chest, her facade shattering into jagged pieces. ""I swear to God, Mom, the street was dark! The lights were off inside the car! It just looked like an old junker parked near the curb! I only looked down at my phone for one second to skip a track!""
""Shut up, Kenzie!"" Beverly snarled, her mask slipping completely. Her face contorted into something ugly, feral, and desperate. She shoved Kenzie behind her back, glaring at me with raw, unfiltered hatred. ""Look what you've done, Marisa! Look what your petty jealousy has done to this family! You could have smoothed this over! Your husband has military connections! You have clean records and insurance! Kenzie's future is dead because you couldn't just keep your mouth shut for once in your miserable life!""
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I looked at the woman who gave birth to me. For three decades, I had chased her approval, walked on eggshells, swallowed insults, and handed over my hard-earned paychecks to bail Kenzie out of blown credit cards and failed community college courses. I had moved into this house three weeks ago thinking my mother finally wanted to help me hold my newborn son while my husband, Luke, served his country three states away.
""Officer Miller,"" I said, my voice steady, ice-cold, and clearer than it had ever been. ""I want her off my property when my husband gets home, and I want you to breathalyze my sister before the alcohol burns out of her blood.""
