Chapter 4

Driving to "The Sweet Spot," the bakery where I worked, my mind raced. Something still felt off, a loose thread I couldn't quite grasp.

Then it hit me. My driver's license.

Last time, Jessica had my actual license to plant at the scene. How did she get it?

I pulled over to the side of the road, my heart thumping. I fumbled for my phone, opening the state DMV app. My driving record.

My stomach dropped.

A string of unpaid parking tickets and a couple of speeding violations. All from times Jessica had borrowed my car in the past few months. She'd sworn she'd taken care of them, using her own information. Liar.

She'd used my license information, racking up points. I was one minor infraction away from a suspension. Eleven points. One more, and I'd be at the twelve-point limit.

That's how she planned to do it. Or how she did it. She knew my license was on the verge. If I got into an accident, especially a fatal one, a suspended license would make me look even guiltier.

But what if I didn't have a license for her to use at all?

A plan, desperate and a little crazy, began to form.

I looked around. I was on a quiet street, a few blocks from the bakery. Up ahead, a traffic light at an intersection. I knew this intersection; it had red-light cameras, clear as day.

Last time, she used my license to destroy me. This time, I'd use it to save myself.

I reached into my work bag and pulled out the small spray bottle of rubbing alcohol I used for sanitizing my baking tools. It was nearly full.

A grim smile touched my lips.

I sprayed a little into the air inside the Mustang, then, steeling myself, a quick spray into my mouth. The taste was vile, burning.

I waited. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I saw a police cruiser idle by the intersection. Perfect.

I started the engine, pulled out, and approached the light. It turned yellow. I hesitated, then, making sure no one was coming, I nudged the Mustang just over the line as it turned red. Not enough to cause an accident, but enough to be seen. Enough to be flagged.

The cruiser's lights flashed almost immediately.

My heart pounded, but this time, it was with a strange sense of triumph.

The officer approached, his face stern. He tapped on my window.

I rolled it down. The scent of alcohol, faint but definite, wafted out.

His expression hardened. "Ma'am, have you been drinking?"

He asked me to step out. He administered a breathalyzer. I blew softly.

The officer looked at the reading, then at me. "Ma'am, you're over the limit. I need to see your license and registration."

I nodded, feigning dismay. "Officer, I am so sorry. I made a terrible mistake." I handed over my license.

"Will my license be suspended?" I asked, trying to sound worried.

He nodded grimly. "For a first offense with this reading, yes. Standard procedure. Six-month suspension, and a fine."

"Six months?" I echoed, injecting a note of panic.

"And a one-thousand-dollar fine," he added, writing the ticket. "Driving is a privilege, ma'am, not a right."

I paid the fine on the spot via the online portal he showed me on his cruiser's computer, and surrendered my physical license right there. He gave me an official receipt for the surrendered license and a temporary DMV notice of suspension.

I called a ride-share to take me home, leaving my Mustang legally parked.

Back in my apartment, alone, I finally allowed myself to breathe.

Jessica wanted my license? Let her try and find it now.

I called my parents. "Mom, Dad? Bad news. I got into a little fender bender. The Mustang's in the shop. Looks like I won't be able to drive down for the community bake sale this weekend."

My dad, bless his heart, didn't hesitate. "Don't you worry, sweetie. We'll come pick you up. Your mom wants to make her famous apple pies anyway."

Perfect.