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I finally asked the only question that mattered. “What was in the message?”
She swallowed, and her voice dropped even lower.
“They weren’t alone on that road. And someone made sure they didn’t make it home.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. The floor felt as if it were tilting under me.
“Who?” I asked.
Emily hesitated. Then her eyes flicked toward the hallway as if she were making sure we were alone.
“Do you remember Officer Reynolds?”
Of course I did.
“They weren’t alone on that road.”
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He’d been the one to deliver the news that night, face solemn and heavy with empathy. Reynolds knew our family. He’d eaten chili at our church’s fall potluck.
“He said it was quick,” I muttered. “Said they didn’t feel anything.”
Emily nodded. “He also said there were no other vehicles involved.”
She opened the phone and pressed play on one of the voicemails. The sound quality was rough: wind, static, the muffled rattle of an engine. But two voices emerged through the fuzz.
“He said it was quick.”
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A man’s voice, panicked: “—can’t do this anymore. You said no one would get hurt.”
Then another voice, sharp, cold: “Just drive. You missed the turn.”
The message ended there.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I said, though I could hear the tremble in my own voice.
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I kept digging.”
She told me everything then.
The message ended there.
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Emmy had spent the last few months combing through court records, accident reports, and internal investigations.
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