Chapter 1 - The Stroke of a Pen
The hum of the radio crackled against the cold evening air, cutting through the murmurs of the growing crowd in the parking lot. The responder didn't look at Lucas anymore; his eyes were fixed on the phone speaker, where my father’s voice still lingered in the space between parked cars.
"Did you catch that?" Dad’s voice came through again, impatient, laced with the casual arrogance of a man who believed his domestic authority superseded state law. "The transfer form is right there. It’s a family vehicle now. Tell Elina to stop wasting your time."
The responder lowered his hand from his radio, his expression hardening into professional granite. He lifted the piece of paper closer to the cruiser’s overhead lights, studying the crisp black ink of the signature at the bottom.
"Mr. Prescott," the responder said into the open air of the speakerphone. "Are you stating for the record that you forged your daughter's signature on a legal transfer of title?"
The line went dead silent for two full seconds.
You could almost hear the gears turning in my father’s head—the sudden realization that he had just confessed to a felony over a recorded line to a law enforcement officer.
"I didn't forge anything," Dad stammered, his confidence evaporating into a panicked screech. "I told you, she’s selfish, she would have agreed if she wasn't so petty—wait, put Elina on the phone. Elina, tell him it's a misunderstanding."
I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I reached across the center console, tapped the screen, and ended the call.
Lucas’s face drained of every drop of color. He took a staggering step forward, his hands raised in defensive surrender. "Officer, look, it's just a prank. My dad likes to joke around with paperwork. We can give the keys back right now. No harm, no foul, right?"
"Right," his friend muttered, backing away into the shadows of the restaurant entrance, visibly eager to disassociate himself from a stolen vehicle and a forged signature.
"Step away from the driver's side door, Mr. Prescott," the responder ordered, his hand resting firmly on the grip of his belt. "Put your hands behind your back."
Lucas looked at me, his eyes wide with frantic disbelief. "Elina! Are you really going to let them arrest me? Over a car? Jessica is nine months pregnant! If I miss the birth because of this, it's on your hands!"
The sheer audacity of it hit me like a splash of freezing water. For twenty-eight years, that exact phrase—*it's on your hands*—had been the family weapon used to force my compliance. Whenever Lucas failed an exam, wrecked a car, or lost a job, my parents made sure I felt the crushing weight of his failure. If I didn't lend him money, I was selfish. If I didn't cover his rent, I was cruel.
This time, I didn't feel a shred of guilt.
May you like
"You should have thought about the baby before you stole my livelihood," I said coldly, stepping closer as the steel cuffs clicked around my brother's wrists.
---
