I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay if even part of this was real.
“Pull yourself together, Ella,” I muttered. “You don’t even know what this is. Breathe.”
None of it made sense. Who would do this? And why now?
Then another message came through.
“Please meet me. I’m Rachel’s sister.”
Rachel’s sister.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the words. After a long pause, I typed back:
“Why should I believe you?”
The response came instantly.
“Because you just posted the first photo of Ben I’ve seen in years. Search his name + accident + license suspension. Do your research. Then we’ll talk.”
I opened my browser.
I typed in Ben’s full name, followed by “accident” and “license suspension.”
A small local news article appeared, dated seven years back.
“Driver in critical condition after single-vehicle crash kills passenger.”
There was no photo. Rachel wasn’t named. But the comments were brutal—people arguing, remembering, pointing fingers.
One comment seared itself into my memory:
“Everyone knew he’d been drinking. She begged him not to drive.”
Another:
“Rest in peace, sweet girl.”
And another:
“Disgusting. A family lost their daughter because of him.”
I met Alison at a diner just off the highway. She was at least ten years older than me, bare-faced, with kind but tired eyes. She didn’t hug me or offer pleasantries—she simply slid a folder across the table.
“It’s all public record,” she said gently. “I didn’t dig illegally. Most people just don’t look.”
Inside were copies of the crash report, Ben’s license suspension, and Rachel’s obituary. In the official report, Rachel wasn’t named—only listed as “female passenger.”
Alison leaned forward.
“She wasn’t just a passenger, Ella,” she said quietly. “She was his wife. My sister. And she hated driving at night. She only got in the car because he pushed her to.”
“He told me it was raining,” I whispered. “That she lost control.”
