‘Put your hands over your heads and step away from the vehicle,’ a new voice says, only there’s no authority in his voice.
‘Stop fucking around, Frank,’ Landon laughs. ‘You here for your cut?’
The cops are in on this too?
A chrome wheel against the wall allows me to catch their reflection and watch the exchange in a blur: Landon hands over a fat wad of cash, the cops ask him how his physio is going like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and the headlights of the police car reverse out and disappear. As if they saw nothing.
Same as that night so long ago.
‘I’m telling you what I saw,’ I scream, slamming my hands down on the table. ‘It was a hit-and-run.’
I feel lightheaded and dizzy. I have to squint before the two police officers come into focus. One burly, with a thick grey moustache, the other younger, like he just came out of the academy.
‘Gia, we haven’t found any evidence of another car,’ the burly one says, ‘If you have any identifying—’
‘I told you already, it was an Aston Martin, it belongs to one of the ECU boys. I saw them driving around in it earlier that afternoon. It’s the car that hit him, I saw it. We all did.’
‘The motorbike’s brakes failed. We’ve run the diagnostics. What happened here is a tragic accident … And no one from ECU was at the event. They all have alibis.’
‘Bullshit!’
Burly leans back in his chair, interlacing his hands behind his head. He shoots his partner a look.
‘Tell that intern to bring in the pamphlets. The one that just finished shift at the speedway.’
‘The old guy? Dellenty?’
‘Whatever his name is, tell him to get the pamphlets.’
The sidekick sticks his head out the door, screaming down the hallway. A moment later, a man appears holding a few sheets of folded-up paper. He shoots me a sympathetic smile before the door’s closed in his face.
Three glossy pamphlets are placed on the table in front of me.
‘Gia.’ The seated officer pushes the papers closer. ‘We’re closing the case. There’s nothing left to investigate here. What you and your friends are going through is tough. Sometimes, when we’re dealing with grief, our minds create stories to make sense of things. You can call this number any time for mental health support.’
I blink at them both before reaching for the brochures and tearing them in half. ‘I don’t need mental health support. I need you to do your job!’
The sound of Landon and his friend closing the doors to the Civic snaps me back into the moment, then the roller door screeches closed, leaving me in darkness. I scrunch my eyes closed and clutch at my heart. I try to slow my breathing but my shaky inhales don’t lessen the anxiety.
I stay still for several more minutes, trying to focus on the steady drip from the wash bay across the room. The silent moments in between are deafening.
When I’m sure it’s safe, it takes an effort to get my body to move. I feel heavy, like lead is weighing down every limb. I slip out the front door and click the lock back in place, my file falling from the latch and hitting the cement with a clang. I kick it off to the side to join the pile of scrap metal.
When I make it back to the Mustang I’d parked several blocks away, Chuckie shifts in the passenger seat. He bumps me a few times with his cold nose before pressing his head into me, providing comfort. Dogs always know.
I should tell someone about what I just saw. What I just witnessed. But who?
My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over all the names in my contact list. I can’t tell Monz, because she’d grill me for doing what I said I wouldn’t.
Telling Mr Fernando would mean talking about why I don’t trust the police. It would mean reliving that night.
Ryker.My heart skips.No.
There’s no one who can help me, especially not the cops, but I can’t just do nothing.
I toss my phone into the centre console and grip the wheel to head back home. When the road opens up, I press down on the gas, watching as the speedometer climbs. Deep in my chest, a long-sleeping rage begins to build. Rage for what happened four years ago and what’s happening now. The feeling twists violently, like a blunt knife that takes time to pierce. It courses through me like dirty oil being drained from a sump.
Landon is after my car, but that fucker is not getting anywhere nearourMustang.
