My sister wrecked my 16-year-old daughter’s brand new car and then called the police…
When you don’t expect someone to knock on your front door a little after 2 a.m., the noise doesn’t just wake you up, it brutally tears you from your waking state.
I wasn’t at a party. I wasn’t living a glamorous, wild life. I was in bed in Savannah, dreaming up landscaping designs for a client who wanted English ivy but lived in a swamp.
My 16-year-old daughter, Meline, was sleeping in the room at the end of the hall. I heard her say goodnight at 10 p.m. I saw her door close.
It was a damp, quiet, and boring Thursday evening. The kind of night where the only danger is an air conditioning breakdown.
So when the blows started — loud and urgent — my first thought wasn’t: « Trouble! »
It was chaos.
Then the lights appeared, red and blue, sweeping across my ceiling fan like a silent alarm.
I grabbed my bathrobe and headed for the door, my heart pounding. I looked through the peephole.
Two uniformed officers, serious faces, tense posture.
I opened the door, leaving the chain behind.
« Can I help you, madam? »
« Are you Danielle Vance? » the older officer asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. « We need to speak with you about a hit-and-run involving a 1967 Mustang convertible registered at this address. »
My brain shut down.
The Mustang. My Mustang.
The cherry red restoration project that I had spent five years and $65,000 perfecting. It was supposed to be in the garage, under a dust cover, waiting for the weekend.
« She’s in the garage, » I said in a slurred voice. « I have the keys. »
The officer shook his head.
« The vehicle is currently embedded in the stone fountain in Lafayette Square. Witnesses have identified the driver who fled on foot. »
I ran away from my car.
“WHO?”
« We have statements, » the officer said, his gaze drifting into the darkness of the house. « Witnesses were present at the scene. They identified the driver as your daughter, Maline Vance. »
He pronounced it badly, as if he had read it on a piece of paper without ever having heard it spoken aloud.
My daughter’s name was Meline.
The world has changed anyway.
Méline.
Meline, who is anxious about ordering a pizza. Meline, who hates driving so much that she still hasn’t taken her driving test.
« That’s impossible, » I said. « She’s asleep. »
« We have witness statements, madam, » he repeated, his tone firmer. « Those of your parents, Keith and Susan Vance, and of your sister, Lauren. They were there. They saw her running. »
My parents. My sister.
At 2 a.m., my child was identified as a criminal.
The betrayal hit me colder than the night air.
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