SWITCHED.
The word leaned downward across
the board.
“You were not driving your own car?” I asked.
One blink.
“Were you driving the health center’s car?”
One blink.
The room seemed to narrow around us.
Three weeks before the crash, my father had uncovered suspicious accounts connected to Northbridge Holdings. He had handed his report to a red-haired woman who claimed to work for Ethan.
Around the same time, Ethan had visited the health center where I volunteered.
Then, on the night of the accident, he had been driving a vehicle associated with that center.
A vehicle I often used.
“The accident wasn’t meant for you,” I said slowly. “You already told us that.”
Ethan’s eyes filled with urgency.
His pen dragged across the board.
REPORT.
“Northbridge?”
One blink.
“My father’s report?”
One blink.
Vivian gripped the bed rail.
“Ethan, who was supposed to be in the car?”
