I can still hear the glass shatter—and his voice in the dark: “Emily, baby… please. Take the blame for me.”
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I’d be sick. Jason stood in our kitchen like he didn’t belong there, breathing fast, shirt half-buttoned, knuckles scraped raw. A thin line of blood streaked the cuff of his sleeve.
“Tell me you didn’t,” I whispered.
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He just paced, rubbing his hair, leaving faint red smudges on his forehead. “It happened so fast. He stepped out—out of nowhere. I swerved. I panicked.”
“You left?” My voice cracked. “Jason, you left the scene?”
He slammed his palm against the counter. “I couldn’t stay! I’ve got a contract renewal next month. If I’m charged, it’s over. The promotion, the health insurance… everything.” He turned on me like the anger could make this logical. “We’ll lose the house, Emily.”
I backed up until my hips hit the table. “So your solution is… framing me?”
He came closer, lowering his voice like the walls were listening. “You were in the passenger seat earlier tonight. You had the car. You can say you were driving. Just—just tell them you were scared and drove off.”
I let out a laugh that sounded wrong, hollow. “You think I can walk into a police station and casually confess to a hit-and-run?”
Jason’s eyes flashed. “It’s not forever. My lawyer can fix it. We’ll handle it. I just need time.”
Time. Like the person on the road had time.
My mind raced: the late grocery run, the rain starting up, Jason insisting he’d “take a quick drive to clear his head.” The way he’d kissed my forehead before grabbing the keys—like a goodbye I didn’t recognize.
“What did you hit?” I asked.
His throat bobbed. “A person.”
“Are they—” I couldn’t finish.
“I don’t know,” he snapped, then softened instantly. “I didn’t look. I couldn’t.”
I stared at the blood on his sleeve again, and the room tilted. That blood didn’t come from scraped knuckles alone.
Jason stepped in, cupped my face like he was still my husband. “Please. If you love me…”
I shoved his hands away. “Don’t do that.”
His jaw tightened. “Emily. You don’t understand what I’m capable of losing.”
Before I could respond, headlights swept across our living room wall. Then a hard knock on the front door—firm, official.
Jason’s face drained of color. He leaned close and whispered, “Say you were driving.”
And behind the door, a man’s voice called out, “Police department. We need to speak with you about a crash.”
I opened the door with my pulse in my ears. Two officers stood on the porch, rain beading on their jackets. One was older, calm, with kind eyes. The other held a small notepad and looked past me into the house.
“Ma’am,” the older one said, “I’m Officer Reynolds. This is Officer Patel. Is Jason Miller home?”
Jason appeared at my shoulder like he’d been there all along, smiling too quickly. “That’s me. What’s going on?”
Officer Reynolds spoke carefully. “There was a hit-and-run about fifteen minutes ago, two miles from here. Witnesses reported a dark gray sedan with front-end damage. Same make and model as yours.”
My throat went dry. The officers’ eyes shifted to the driveway. I could practically see the dented hood in my mind.
Jason didn’t flinch. “That’s… crazy. Our car’s right there. We’ve been home.”
Officer Patel lifted his pen. “Could we take a look at the vehicle?”
Jason’s hand slid behind my back, fingers pressing into my spine. A silent message: Follow my lead.
“Of course,” I heard myself say, and it terrified me that my voice sounded normal.
We walked outside. Under the porch light, the truth was brutal. The front bumper was cracked. A spiderweb of glass clung to the grille. And caught near the headlight—something that looked like a strand of fabric.
Officer Reynolds crouched. “This is fresh.”
Jason gave a small shrug, acting offended. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe someone hit it while it was parked?”
Officer Patel frowned. “The windshield has impact marks. That’s not a parking lot bump.”
I couldn’t breathe. My stomach twisted as Officer Reynolds stood and looked at us both. “Ma’am, were you driving tonight?”
Jason turned toward me, his face soft, pleading—while his nails dug into my skin. “Tell them, Em,” he murmured, almost sweet.
In that second, I saw the trap clearly. If I lied, I could save him—but destroy myself. If I told the truth, I didn’t know what he’d do after the officers left.
“My husband took the car,” I started, then swallowed. Jason’s grip tightened like a warning.
Officer Reynolds watched me closely. “Ma’am, you’re shaking.”
Jason cut in fast. “Emily’s anxious around cops. She had a rough childhood. Isn’t that right, honey?”
His “honey” sounded like a threat.
Officer Patel pointed to the fabric by the headlight. “We also found a torn piece of this material at the scene. Same weave. We’re going to need to collect evidence and ask a few more questions.”
Jason’s smile finally cracked. “Do you have a warrant?”
Officer Reynolds sighed. “Jason, cooperate. It’ll go better.”
I stared at that fabric. My mind flashed to Jason’s sleeve—blood on the cuff, and now this. It didn’t add up. If he hit someone, why was there cloth on the car and blood on him?
Then I remembered something else: earlier, Jason had come home with a new jacket, black and expensive, saying it was “from a client.” Now it was nowhere in sight.
“Where’s your jacket?” I blurted.
Jason’s eyes snapped to mine—pure panic, hidden too late.
Officer Patel looked up. “What jacket, ma’am?”
Jason spoke over me, too fast. “She’s confused. She means my coat—”
But I was already moving. I walked back inside, ignoring Jason’s hissed “Emily, don’t.” My hands went straight to the laundry room door.
Because if I was going to survive this, I needed the truth before Jason buried it.
The laundry room smelled like detergent and panic. I yanked open the hamper and saw it immediately—Jason’s new black jacket, shoved beneath towels like a secret. My fingers trembled as I pulled it free.
There was a tear along the right side, as if someone had grabbed it. And on the inner lining—dark stains that weren’t just rain.
My knees went weak.
Behind me, Jason’s footsteps thundered down the hall. “Emily!” His voice wasn’t pleading anymore. It was sharp, dangerous.
I spun as he filled the doorway. “You said you didn’t know if the person was alive,” I whispered. “So why is there blood inside your jacket?”
Jason’s face hardened. “Put it down.”
Officer Reynolds appeared behind him, drawn by the raised voices. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
Jason shifted instantly, blocking the officer’s view. “We’re fine. It’s a misunderstanding.”
“No,” I said, louder. My throat burned, but the word felt like oxygen. “It’s not.”
I held the jacket up, forcing the officers to see the ripped seam, the stains, the trembling truth. Officer Patel stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
Jason’s jaw clenched. “Emily, don’t do this.”
I took one step back, keeping distance. “You did this to me first. You came home and asked me to destroy my life to save yours.”
His eyes flicked to the officers—calculating. He tried a different tactic, softer. “Em, please. We can fix this. We’ll get lawyers. We’ll—”
“You didn’t even stop,” I said. “You didn’t even look.”
Officer Reynolds’ voice turned firm. “Jason, step aside.”
Jason didn’t move. For a terrifying moment, I thought he might grab me, yank the jacket away, spin some lie fast enough to confuse everyone.
But Officer Patel reached for his radio. “We need additional units at this address.”
Jason finally realized the room had shifted. He wasn’t controlling the story anymore.
His shoulders sagged, and the mask slipped. “You think you’re doing the right thing?” he spat at me. “You have no idea what you just started.”
Officer Reynolds moved in. “Jason Miller, you’re being detained for questioning in connection with a hit-and-run. Turn around.”
Jason’s glare burned into me as cuffs clicked. It wasn’t just anger—it was betrayal, as if I’d broken some unspoken rule that wives protect husbands no matter what.
As they led him out, he twisted his head toward me. “You’ll regret this,” he whispered.
I stood frozen in my laundry room, clutching that jacket like it was proof and a warning. The rain kept tapping the windows, steady and indifferent, while my whole life rearranged itself in real time.
Later, when the house went quiet, my phone buzzed with an unknown number. One text.
You should’ve taken the blame.
My blood ran cold. Jason was in custody… so who sent it?
If you want Part 4—what I did next, and how deep Jason’s lies really went—drop a comment and tell me: Would you have told the truth, or protected him?
