I gazed through the window toward the skyline. Somewhere in the distance stood the old house in Columbus. The house was built with my earnings, my sacrifice, and my silence.
“I’m done protecting people who never protected me,” I said.
That afternoon, I walked into the police station. Detective Daugherty listened carefully, his expression completely serious.
“Ms. Morales, what would you like to report?” he asked.
I laid a thick envelope across his desk.
“Vehicular manslaughter, conspiracy to conceal evidence, coercion, and obstruction of justice,” I answered.
Inside were my mother’s text messages urging me to accept the blame for Austin, my father’s voice recordings promising the house in return, and Sheila’s messages. I also handed him a small USB drive.
On the night of the collision, Sheila had hidden my car’s dashcam memory card inside a flowerpot. I witnessed her doing it, and I secretly dug it up before reporting to prison. The footage clearly showed Austin driving while intoxicated, Sheila urging him to drive faster, the impact itself, and both of them fleeing the scene. I also included an audio recording of our confrontation the day I came home.
