wrong person offered themselves up just to stop being unwanted.

I swallowed.

“They want me to say I was driving.”

“I gathered.”

Something in his tone made me freeze.

“You heard?”

Mercer sat down across from me.

“The interview rooms are monitored for safety.

Audio is not always actively recorded during private family moments, depending on procedure and consent.

But the hallway camera picked up more than your father probably expected.

And your mother may have leaned closer, but she wasn’t as quiet as she thought.”

My breath caught.

He opened the folder and slid out a photograph.

It showed the front corner of a black Lexus, paint scraped along the bumper, the passenger-side headlight cracked like a spiderweb.

My stomach turned.

“That’s my father’s car.”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t in it.”

“I know.”

I stared at him.

Mercer placed another photo beside the first.

It was grainy, taken from above, probably a traffic camera.

A black Lexus waited at the intersection.

The driver’s face was not clear, but the outline of long blonde hair was visible in the glow from the dashboard.

Scarlett.

“There’s more,” Mercer said.

He showed me a receipt from a wine bar three blocks from Maple and 9th.

Scarlett’s name was on the card.

The time stamp was 10:19 p.m.

Then a still from a parking garage camera at 10:32 p.m.

Scarlett in her pale blue sweater, walking unsteadily beside the Lexus, her phone in one hand, keys in the other.

Then another image from a gas station near the intersection at 10:48 p.m.

The Lexus turning in with visible front-end damage.

My throat tightened.

“She stopped?” I asked.

“She pulled into the lot for thirty-seven seconds,” Mercer said.

“Long enough to get out, look at the bumper, and leave.”

I shut my eyes.

For a moment, the room disappeared, and all I could see was a woman lying in rainwater under a traffic light while my sister inspected a broken headlight.

“Is Mrs.

Parker going to live?” I asked.

“We don’t know yet.”

The answer pressed the air out of my lungs.

Mercer slid the photos back into the folder.

“I need your statement because your family is already attempting to redirect responsibility.

Your father told the first responding officer that you had access to the car tonight.

Your mother implied you had been unstable lately.

Your sister has not given a clear account.”

I gave a short, bitter laugh.

“Unstable.”

“Are you?”

I looked at him.

“No.”

“Were you driving the Lexus tonight?”

“No.”

“Were you at Maple and 9th at or around 10:41 p.m.?”

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

The old fear rose up in me then.

The unfairness of being innocent and still having to prove I existed somewhere else.

Alone in my apartment, washing dishes, watching half an episode of a show I wasn’t even paying attention to.

No witnesses.

No roommate.

No boyfriend.

No one who could say, yes, Clare was here, Clare is telling the truth.

Then I remembered.

“My building has cameras,” I said quickly.

“At the entrance.

And the laundry room.

I took my trash out at around ten-thirty, maybe ten-thirty-five.

I saw Mr.

Alvarez from 2B in the hallway.

He was carrying a pizza box.”

Mercer nodded and wrote it down.

“And my phone,”