Cut. As if to extract a passenger who was stuck because of the crash.
My heart thumped wildly as this new information sunk in. Jude was the passenger, not the driver. He had to be. My brother had not been wearing his seatbelt at all when he was ejected during the crash. His seatbelt wouldn’t have been cut, because he wasn’t wearing it in the first place.
A car door slammed outside the house.
Holy shit.
The photo in my hand—with the cut seat belt—I jammed into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I slapped the folder shut and stuffed it into the drawer, near the back. I kicked it closed and bolted out of my father’s office. I was too freaked out to face him so I took the stairs two at a time. I sat down on my bed and listened to my heart gallop.
Below me, the kitchen door opened and closed.
I should have walked out the front door when I had the chance. Now I was trapped upstairs.
No, calm down, Sophie. No need to be dramatic. My hands shook, though, as I pulled that photo out of my back pocket. I flipped on my overhead light and propped the picture up on my desk, where I took several shots of it with my phone. It took me a minute to get the angle just right, so there’d be no glare.
Downstairs I heard someone stomping around. Then there was the clink of ice cubes into a glass.
My heart thumped at the base of my throat as I texted the photo to Jude’s new phone. The progress line as it uploaded seemed to creep across the screen in slow motion. But eventually it read “delivered.” Then I sent a copy to Nelligan. Just in case.
Jude’s reply was almost instantaneous, and it broke our no-texting rule. WTF? Call me.
Can’t talk, I replied. Don’t call my phone.
I jammed the phone into my pocket even as it vibrated again. I needed to get out of this house. There was no way I could speak calmly with my father over stuffed chicken breasts tonight.
All I had to do was walk downstairs and outside, right? My father was probably heading into his den. If I were lucky he’d turn on the television.
And was I ever coming back? Now that I could prove my father had squirreled away evidence of Jude’s innocence, everything had changed.
I grabbed my book bag off the floor. The police report was still inside. If I left that behind my father would know exactly what I’d been up to. I slid my computer into the bag as well, then opened my dresser drawers and added a couple clean T-shirts and underwear.
That would have to do for now.
My father was still stomping around downstairs. I sat on the bed and worked to keep my breathing calm and regular. Minutes ticked by. It got quieter. Still I waited. The more engrossed he was in his den, the easier this would be.
After I was sure that there had been no footsteps downstairs for several minutes, it was time to go.
I slid my book bag onto my shoulder and took a deep breath. Look casual, Sophie. My car was right out in front of the house, the keys in the cupholder, because nobody stole a cop’s daughter’s car.
Piece of cake, right?
At the top of the stairs I listened again. My mother’s TV could be heard behind the closed door to her room. My father was probably in his den. Maybe he was even on the phone.
Thank goodness for the carpet runner my mother had chosen for our stairs back when she used to care. The soft pile of the rug muted my footsteps. On the bottom stair I hesitated. Front door or back? The kitchen door was closest to me, but the car was in the other direction.
Stillness beckoned me toward the living room, and I followed it, easing past the dining table toward our front hall.
When a hand shot out, locking around my forearm, I opened my mouth to scream. The sound got stuck in my throat as my father whipped me around to face him. I got my first look at his stormy expression as a hand collided with my face, the impact of the slap ringing loudly through the air.
There was no time for outrage. The momentum of his slap knocked me sideways. My hip and then my cheek both collided with the corner of wall. I stumbled and slid down the wall until my ass met the floor.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he shouted, his face as red as raw meat. “Was it you in my file drawer?” He kicked me in the thigh. Hard. “Meddling bitch.”
A whimper escaped me as I grabbed my leg in two hands. I knew I needed to get up off the floor. I was way too vulnerable down here. But panic made me clumsy. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said shakily, pushing myself up off the floor.
As soon as I was vertical, my father shoved me by the shoulders against the wall. “Don’t play me, you stupid slut,” he spat. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
I’d spent my whole childhood trying to please him, or at least appease him. And every year it had gotten harder. Now I just snapped. “GET your hands off me!”