A police officer stepped closer. “Ma’am, are you saying you didn’t do this?”

“He called me and said he did,” I replied, pointing directly at Derek.

Derek snapped immediately, “She’s lying! It’s her car! Her parents bought it. She’s trying to blame me.”

I inhaled slowly. “The Lamborghini my parents gifted me is still at the dealership. Here’s the contract and the dealer’s address.”

I pulled the paperwork from my purse and handed it over.

Another officer motioned Derek aside. “Sir, come over here.”

“It was a prank,” Derek said quickly. “A stupid anniversary prank.”

“Pranks don’t involve accelerant,” the officer replied calmly, glancing toward the driveway where a fire investigator was already examining the scene.

The investigator asked for our porch camera footage.

Ironically, Derek had installed those cameras himself. He called them security. I always thought they felt more like control.

Now they were evidence.

We watched the clip together on my phone.

Derek dragged a gas can from the garage. He walked around the car, splashing fuel across the hood. Then he flicked a lighter.

His face was perfectly visible under the porch light.

Derek stared at the screen in stunned silence.

“You recorded me,” he muttered.

“You recorded yourself,” I answered.

The investigator spoke calmly. “Sir, you’re coming with us.”

Derek suddenly lunged toward me, trying to grab my phone. An officer intercepted him immediately. During the struggle his key ring hit the pavement, and a small insurance tag slipped out.

I picked it up instinctively.

The tag showed a policy number and the words:

“Full coverage effective today.”

My stomach dropped.

He had upgraded the coverage the very same morning he demanded my keys.

So this hadn’t just been rage.

It had been a plan.

While the tow truck waited, an officer checked the VIN and confirmed what the license plate already showed: the burned car belonged to Derek.

It was a flashy used coupe he had bought on credit a week earlier and proudly parked in our driveway, telling neighbors he had “finally upgraded.” I hadn’t argued at the time.

Until he decided to turn it into a weapon.

My parents arrived within thirty minutes. My father looked once at the charred car, then at Derek in handcuffs, and pulled me close.

Derek shouted from the back of the police cruiser, “Tell your daddy to fix this! You people solve everything with money!”

I stepped closer so he could hear me clearly.

“No,” I said. “I’m solving this with the truth.”

CONTINUE READING...>>

To see the full instructions for this recipe, go to the next page or click the open button (>) and don't forget to share it with your friends on Facebook.