Chapter 2 - Midnight at Front Street
The headlights of the rideshare sliced through the drizzle outside the Columbus Division of Police headquarters on Marconi Boulevard. Through the rain-streaked glass, the municipal building looked massive, monolithic, and brutally indifferent.
My hands trembled on the nylon straps of my backpack. Inside, the sleek aluminum weight of the MacBook rested against my spine like a live artillery shell.
"You good, miss?" the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. He was chewing gum, his face illuminated by the blue glare of his GPS. "You want me to wait?"
"No," I whispered, clearing my throat until my voice found some semblance of steel. "No, this is good. Thank you."
I paid him through the app, stepped out into the chill November wind, and shut the door. The sedan pulled away into the night, leaving me entirely alone under the harsh halogen floods of the entrance.
For ten agonizing seconds, my feet wouldn't move. If I walked up those concrete steps, my family was finished. My mother, who had tucked me in when I had scarlet fever at age seven. My father, who had taught me how to drive on back gravel roads. And Ryan—the golden boy, the high school valedictorian, the prodigal son who could do no wrong. They had looked me in the eyes less than thirty minutes ago, clapped as I blew out eighteen candles, and handed me the instrument of my own ruin.
*We can get her out of trouble. We can’t get you out if they prove intent.*
The memory of my father’s flat, pragmatic voice extinguished the last flicker of hesitation in my chest. They hadn't hesitated to sacrifice me. I wasn't their daughter tonight; I was an insurance policy with a pulse.
I pushed through the heavy glass doors into the lobby. The air inside smelled of stale industrial coffee, damp wool, and floor polish. Behind a barrier of ballistic glass sat a desk sergeant with silver hair, typing slowly with two fingers.
He glanced up, taking in my soaked sneakers, my oversized hoodie, and the white-knuckle grip I had on my bag.
"Can I help you, kid?" he asked, not unkindly.
"I need to report a felony," I said. My voice didn't waver this time. "And I need to surrender evidence before someone files a false report against me."
The sergeant paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He looked past me toward the empty lobby, then back at my face. He took in the raw terror and cold determination etched into my posture.
"Whose evidence?" he asked, reaching for a clipboard.
May you like
"My brother's," I said, unzipping the backpack and placing the silver MacBook squarely on the counter. "And my parents'."
***
