before disappearing, she made one final move.
She dropped my stolen license onto the driver’s side floor.
Ten minutes later, my mother called the police anonymously, describing a woman who looked exactly like me driving recklessly near the scene.
This wasn’t just another cover-up.
This was a setup.
They were sacrificing me—my record, my freedom, my career—so Harper’s wedding wouldn’t collapse under a prison sentence.
Right now, across the city, they were probably sitting in my parents’ living room, sipping wine, relieved, convinced the police had just locked their scapegoat
