I froze, the screwdriver slipping from my fingers and clattering against the concrete floor.

“I don’t have anything illegal there,” I whispered.

“You might want to get down here, Ms. Vance,” the detective replied.

“Because your sister Megan is already here, and she’s giving us a full statement.”

I slammed my phone shut and grabbed my truck keys from the workbench.

My hands shook so hard I dropped them twice before I could unlock the driver’s side door.

The cold Cleveland wind cut through my canvas jacket as I backed out of the bakery’s loading dock.

I drove fast, cutting through the gray, slushy streets toward 117th Street.

The tires splashed dirty water onto the sidewalks as I turned the corner of my block.

Two police cruisers sat idling in front of my apartment building, their blue lights painting the brick facade.

I parked on the curb, leaving the truck crooked, and ran toward the front steps.

Detective Miller stood on the porch, a clipboard in his hand.

My mother and Megan were standing right beside him.