The Choice
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. I sat across from Detective Morris, my hands trembling in my lap while my parents stood behind my younger sister like bodyguards protecting royalty. Raven’s mascara had run down her perfect cheekbones, creating dark rivers that somehow made her look even more beautiful in her devastation.
My mother kept stroking her hair, whispering soothing words I’d never heard directed at me. “Someone needs to take responsibility for this,” Detective Morris said, his eyes moving between us. “The evidence puts one of you behind the wheel during the hit-and-run.
Mrs. Patterson is in critical condition.”
My father stepped forward, his face a mask I’d seen countless times before—the expression he wore when making business decisions, weighing costs and benefits with cold precision. “Officer, my daughters are both here to cooperate fully.
We just need a moment to discuss this as a family.”
They pulled me into a side room. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. Raven collapsed into a chair, sobbing into her hands.
Mom immediately went to her, cradling her like she was still five years old instead of twenty-three. Dad turned to me with an expression I can still see when I close my eyes. “Morgan, we need you to tell them you were driving.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
“What? No. Raven was driving.
I wasn’t even in the car.”
“Your sister has her whole life ahead of her,” Mom said, not even looking at me. “She just got accepted to graduate school. She has James who wants to marry her.
She’s going to do something important with her life.”
The implication hung in the air like poison gas. Unlike you, they didn’t need to say. I’d heard it my entire life in a thousand different ways.
“This is insane. I wasn’t there. The truth will come out.”
I looked at Raven, waiting for her to speak up, to tell them this was crazy.
She just cried harder. Dad’s voice dropped lower, taking on the tone he used when closing difficult deals. “You’re twenty-eight years old.
You work at a grocery store. You live in a studio apartment. You’ve never done anything remarkable with your opportunities.”
“Raven wouldn’t survive prison,” Mom added, finally meeting my eyes.
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