I woke up three days later at St. Vincent Medical Center with tubes in my arms, stitches across my ribs, and a police officer sitting outside my hospital room.
At first, I thought he was there because of the crash.
Then Aunt Meredith leaned over my bed and whispered, “Grace, honey, don’t talk to your father alone.”
Her face was pale. She looked older than she had on Sunday. Her silver hair was tied back messily, and she held my hand as if she feared I might vanish if she let go.
“What happened?” I asked. My voice sounded rough and dry.
“You were badly hurt,” she said.
“I know that.”
Her eyes shifted toward the door. “The police found something.”
Before she could explain, Dad walked in carrying flowers from the hospital gift shop. Cheap daisies. The kind he used to buy Mom when he had forgotten an anniversary.
“Gracie,” he said softly.
I stared at him.
He tried to smile, but it trembled. “You scared us.”
Us.
The word almost made me laugh.
Aunt Meredith stood. “Daniel, the doctor said she needs rest.”
“I’m her father.”
“And I’m the person she asked for when she woke up.”
Dad’s face tightened. For one second, the mask slipped, just long enough for me to see the same coldness I had heard on the road.
Then he became gentle again.
“Grace,” he said, stepping closer, “you may have heard things that night that sounded wrong. I was panicking. Olivia was bleeding. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
I remembered every syllable.
“The other one never meant much anyway.”
My fingers curled against the blanket.
“I heard you,” I said.
His eyes sharpened.
Aunt Meredith moved beside my bed.
Dad lowered his voice. “You were confused. You had a concussion.”
“No,” I said. “I was awake.”
He glanced at the officer outside the door, then back at me. “This is family business.”
That was when Detective Maria Keller entered.
She was in her forties, composed, with dark hair pulled into a low bun and a notebook in her hand. She did not introduce herself like someone asking permission. She introduced herself like someone gathering facts.
“Grace Holloway,” she said, “I’m Detective Keller. When you feel ready, I need to ask you about the vehicle.”
Dad gave a short laugh. “My daughter just woke up.”
Detective Keller did not look at him. “Mr. Holloway, you can wait outside.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Yes,” she said. “You are.”
The officer appeared in the doorway.
Dad’s mouth tightened again, but he left.
Detective Keller closed the door.
Then she said, “The explosion was not an accident.”
My heart monitor started beeping faster.
She opened her notebook. “Someone tampered with the fuel line. There was also evidence of an accelerant under the driver’s side. But here’s what doesn’t make sense. Your father had the car serviced two days earlier, and the mechanic says he warned him not to drive it until a full inspection was completed.”
Aunt Meredith covered her mouth.
I stared up at the ceiling.
Dad had known something was wrong.
Detective Keller continued. “Your sister says she doesn’t remember anything before the explosion.”
“She remembers,” I whispered.
Both women looked at me.
“She told him something,” I said. “Before we got in the car. She said, ‘Don’t be mad. I only told him because I thought he already knew.’”
“What did she mean?” Keller asked.
“My bank account. My apartment deposit. My college transfer.”
Aunt Meredith closed her eyes.
I swallowed through the pain. “I was leaving.”
Detective Keller’s expression changed, not dramatically, but enough.
“Grace,” she asked, “did your father benefit from you staying?”
I thought about the bills in my name. The diner paychecks he borrowed and never paid back. The life insurance policy Mom had left, controlled by Dad until I turned twenty-one in six months.
Then I thought about the explosion.
“Yes,” I said. “He did.”
