He stands as Cain instructs him, “Seriously, cut the shit.”
But Micah is unfazed. He leans over, moving eye-to-eye with me. “I said you should ask. That doesn’t mean you’ll get an answer. At least not yet.” Then he saunters away.
I can see it now. The likeness of his nature to his brother’s is uncanny. They’re both thoroughly vile. There is no such thing as a nice twin with these two.
“Ivy,” Cain interrupts my thoughts as I break away from asshat number two. “He’s screwing with you.”
“I know.” Obviously. It’s what the duo is great at apparently. “But he got the pictures from someone who was there that night, right? Maybe they have more. Or they can give me more information about who caused the crash. The witness said it was a pickup truck.”
Remy shovels fries into his mouth. “Have you seen the police report?”
“No. Everett told me about it.”
“Pussy boy from the party?” Remy snorts. “I’d ask to see it for yourself. Sounds like you could be missing some details to me. Brooke’s dad is a cop. You should ask him.”
That’s new info. And it makes more sense why she didn’t want to report anything. And I can’t really say anything. My dad hit me, and I went on like nothing happened. Reporting him or fighting seemed useless. It didn’t hurt much. The pain was minor. The realization that the person who should protect me is the one I needed protection from was defeating. It wasn’t surprising. I’ve never been able to count on him. Why would anything be different now?
42
IVY
As soon as school is out, I head to the police station. I debated asking Brooke to see if her dad could get it, but given their relationship doesn’t seem great, I didn’t want to put her in his crosshairs.
When I arrive at the station, the place is packed. However, the line moves relatively faster than I’d expect as the clerk asked how she can help me.
“I requested a report online, but it said it’d be a few days. Can I get a copy now if I request it here?”
“Yes, what’s the case number?”
I relay the information, and not long after, I’m exiting the police station with a hard copy in hand. I wait until I’m in my car before I read through the report.
Everything feels so impersonal and cold. Like they’re describing how to construct their sandwich at Subway and not the account of an accident where someone lost their life.V1 failed to yield to V2. Subject DOA.
Subject? I know it’s just an explanation of the wreck. But it’s sounds like she was a heap of debris in middle of the road that needed to be documented.
The most interesting note is that the truck was towed to a private impound lot with an address listed. Why couldn’t they find the person if they had his whole-ass vehicle? I knew the driver bailed, but they left a big clue to their identity. There has to be some indication on it.
Mapping myself to the tow yard, I find it’s only ten minutes away and drive straight there.
As soon as I open the door, the smell of stale coffee and oil hits me as a gruff voice calls out, “Can I help you, darling?”
I approach the metal desk that the man is sitting behind. “I wanted some information on a truck brought here from a hit-and-run.”
“Case number? Make and model?” he asks, clicking around on a computer that looks older than me as I give him the specifics.
“Yes. It was brought here back in June and crushed a few days later.”
“Crushed?” I repeat.
His entire attitude changes. “Yeah, I remember this one all right. Like I told the bastard before, it wasn’t my call to destroy it. Did he send you?”
“Who? No, nobody sent me,” I stutter. “Who was here?”
He reclines back in his chair, slightly rocking as he tells me, “An asshole, that’s who. I kept his Sierra here as long as I could after he was hauled out of here for assaulting me. I should’ve pressed charges on his worthless ass, but the arresting officer felt sympathetic for the bloke.”
There’s one person I know who drives that truck—Uncle Shawn. “A silver one?”
“Yes.”
