Chapter 8 - WHAT DID SHE WANT TO HAPPEN TO ME?
Amy started crying.
I couldn’t.
I think my body had gone beyond fear.
I stared at the words.
ACCIDENT WINDOW.
“Tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”
The detective answered carefully.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Then why would somebody list my highway routes?”
“We’re investigating.”
I stood.
“My mother wanted me dead?”
“We do not have evidence to say that.”
“But you have a fake life insurance policy and notes about accidents.”
“Connor.”
I walked out.
In the parking lot, I threw up behind my truck.
Amy found me there.
She put one hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
I wiped my mouth.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
“None of this is yours.”
“I should’ve told you sooner.”
“I should’ve seen it.”
We stood under the parking lot lights.
Finally, she said, “There’s something else.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“Your mother asked me about your work truck.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
“What did she ask?”
“What safety features it had.”
My stomach tightened.
“She asked whether your company tracked it. Whether there was GPS.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She said she was worried because you drive so much.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Every cruel thing my mother did came wrapped in concern.
I’m only helping.
I’m only worried.
I’m only doing what’s best.
The next morning, I called my company fleet manager.
“Pull all maintenance records on my truck.”
He called back twenty minutes later.
“Connor, did you take the vehicle somewhere privately last month?”
“No.”
“There’s an unlogged service entry.”
“What kind?”
“Brake inspection.”
My hands went cold.
“Who authorized it?”
“Signature says you did.”
I hadn’t.
The truck was seized for inspection.
By noon, the mechanic called.
“Mr. Bradley?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lucky.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“The rear brake line had been partially cut.”
Amy grabbed my arm.
“How bad?”
“Not enough to fail immediately. Enough to leak over time.”
I sat down.
The mechanic continued.
“If you’d kept driving another week or two, you could’ve lost pressure.”
A week or two.
I checked my work calendar.
The following week, I was scheduled to drive through the Smoky Mountains.
Long grades.
Sharp curves.
Heavy equipment traffic.
I called Daniels.
He didn’t interrupt once.
Then he said, “Connor, I need you to tell me exactly who had access to that truck.”
I answered immediately.
“Me. Amy.”
I paused.
“And my mother.”
That afternoon, investigators pulled video from my company parking lot.
August 28.
11:17 p.m.
My truck sat alone.
A dark SUV entered.
Someone got out.
Baseball cap.
Gloves.
The person crawled under my truck.
Five minutes later, they got back into the SUV.
The image was grainy.
May you like
But when investigators enlarged the license plate, I recognized the number.
It belonged to my cousin Mason.
