I was handcuffed at gunpoint for a felony hit-and-run. Across town, my family was celebrating. Out of the house.
“Hands up!” the officer shouted as my front door burst open at 6:47 a.m. Two guns were aimed straight at me. I was handcuffed for a serious hit-and-run, an accusation powerful enough to destroy my career, my reputation, and my freedom.
Somewhere else in Austin, my sister and my parents were sitting together, convinced their ninety-day plan was flawless, that I would go to prison for the crash she caused. The cuffs tightened around my wrists. But they forgot one very small detail, and that detail was about to bring their entire plan crashing down.
Thank you for being here. You have no idea how much it means. Quick question: where are you watching from?
And if your own sibling framed you for a crime, would your first emotion be shock, rage, or disbelief? Tell me in the comments. Heads up, this story uses fictionalized details for impact and education.
Any resemblance to actual names or locations is coincidental, but the lesson about protecting yourself from toxic family is painfully true. Let’s begin. Officer Stevens didn’t knock.
Three sharp metallic bangs rattled my apartment door at exactly 6:47 a.m. Not a neighbor. Not a delivery.
This was the sound of authority that doesn’t wait for permission. I was pouring my first cup of coffee when it happened. The stream froze midair as my brain caught up.
Outside my windows, Rainy Street was still gray with pre-dawn light, the Austin skyline barely visible through the haze. “Austin police. Open the door!”
My hand jerked.
Coffee splashed across the granite. I set the pot down, my pulse climbing. I was wearing an old UT T-shirt and pajama shorts, bare feet padding across hardwood as I headed for the door.
“I’m coming,” I called. The second my fingers touched the deadbolt, the door exploded inward. Three officers flooded my apartment.
Two Glock 22s were aimed directly at my chest. “Hands. Let me see your hands!”
I threw my arms up, palms out.
The lead officer was young, maybe thirty, buzzcut, jaw clenched tight. His nameplate read STEVENS. Behind him, two backup officers swept the room, weapons drawn like they expected someone to jump out.
“Reagan Sutton,” Stevens said, his voice flat. “Yes. What—”
“You’re under arrest for attempted murder.”
The words didn’t compute.
Attempted murder. It sounded like a foreign language, like I was still asleep and this was a nightmare. “What?
There’s been a mistake. I haven’t—”
“Turn. Hands behind your back.”
Stevens didn’t wait.
He grabbed my wrist, spun me toward the counter, and yanked my arms behind me. Cold steel bit into my skin. The handcuffs ratcheted closed.
Click. Click. Click.
Obscenely loud in my quiet apartment. “You have the right to remain silent,” Stevens recited, his breath hot against my neck. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
“Yes, but I didn’t do anything.
What attempted murder? I was home all night.”
“Tell it to the detective.”
He gripped my bicep and turned me toward the door. My neighbors were watching.
Mrs. Miller from 4B had her hand over her mouth. Marcus across the hall had his phone out, recording.
This was a perp walk, public humiliation before I even reached booking. Stevens marched me down the hallway, past the broken elevator, into the stairwell. My bare feet slapped against cold concrete as we descended three flights.
I forced myself to observe details: Stevens’s firm grip, the backup officer’s body camera blinking red, the way they treated me like I was dangerous. The thought sent ice through my veins. We exited into the underground garage where a black-and-white cruiser idled, exhaust mixing with the damp concrete smell.
Stevens opened the back door, steel-reinforced wire mesh separating front and back, and guided my head down as I slid inside. The door slammed. The locks engaged with a heavy thunk.
I was alone in a police car. The molded plastic seat dug into my spine. The handcuffs bit into my wrists, shoulders already aching.
Through the mesh, I watched Stevens radio in. “Suspect in custody. En route to central station.”
Suspect.
That was me now. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. Attempted murder.
Who, when, where? I was home last night. All night.
Nine p.m. Zoom call with Singapore clients. Watched Netflix.
Fell asleep on the couch. Woke up at 6:30, made coffee. No gaps, no blackout, no mystery hours, which meant someone made a mistake or someone was framing me.
Stevens climbed into the driver’s seat. The backup officers got into a second cruiser. Through the windshield, I watched the garage gate roll open, revealing pale Texas morning light.
Rainy Street was waking up. Joggers on the trail. A food truck setting up.
A guy walking his dog. Normal. In here, my life was unraveling.
The cruiser pulled onto Cesar Chavez, heading downtown. I watched my apartment building disappear in the mirror. Inside that building were my laptop, my phone, my work files, everything that proved I was exactly where I said I was.
They hadn’t let me grab any of it. My mind spun through scenarios. Attempted murder doesn’t happen without evidence.
There was a victim somewhere, someone hurt, someone who, according to Austin PD, I had tried to seriously harm. But who, and how? I stared out at the skyline, buildings glowing gold in early light, and one thought burned through the confusion.
Whoever did this made a mistake. They thought they could pin this on me. They thought I wouldn’t be able to prove them wrong.
They didn’t know who I was. They didn’t know what I did. I’m a cybersecurity analyst.
I solve problems. I find holes in systems. I trace digital fingerprints people think they’ve erased.
And I was going to find whoever was trying to destroy me. The cruiser merged onto I-35, traffic building as Austin woke up. Stevens’s radio crackled with dispatch codes I didn’t understand.
My reflection stared back at me in the window: tangled hair, UT shirt, handcuffs gleaming. I looked like exactly what they thought I was—a criminal. But I wasn’t.
I ran through the facts again. Last night, nine p.m., Zoom call. I could prove that.
Cloud recording. Timestamp. Singapore clients as witnesses.
Ten p.m., Netflix. Fell asleep. Woke at 6:30.
Airtight alibi. So why was I in handcuffs? The answer hit me like cold water.
Because someone wanted me here. Someone planned this. Someone knew exactly how to make me look guilty.
The question was who, and why. Stevens took the exit for downtown and through the windshield I saw the Travis County courthouse, then the police station beyond it, a blocky concrete building that looked exactly like every government facility built in the seventies: utilitarian, impersonal, the kind of place where lives get processed like paperwork. My stomach twisted.
This was real. This was actually happening. In minutes, I’d be booked, fingerprinted, photographed, processed into the system like I was already guilty.
But I wasn’t going to panic. Panic doesn’t solve problems. I was going to stay calm, use every skill I had, and prove that someone had set me up.
Because that’s what this was. A setup. A frame job so clean that Austin PD showed up at my door with guns drawn, confident they had their suspect.
Someone knew exactly what they were doing. Someone smart. Someone close enough to know my schedule, my routines, my life.
The thought made my blood run cold. Stevens pulled into the station’s underground garage and the fluorescent lights overhead flickered on, harsh and institutional. He parked, killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening.
“This is it,” I thought. He opened my door, helped me out, almost gentle now, the aggression gone, and I stood there in bare feet and pajamas, handcuffed, while he radioed that we’d arrived. “Detective will see you in about an hour,” Stevens said, not unkindly.
“Booking first.”
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. As he guided me toward the heavy steel door leading into the station, I made myself a promise.
I would find out who did this. I would prove my innocence. And I would make sure whoever tried to destroy me answered for every second of this nightmare.
I didn’t know it yet, but the person who had set me up was someone I’d protected my entire childhood. The fifteen-minute ride to Austin Police Department central station had felt like hours. My wrists were already bruising.
The handcuffs bit deeper with every pothole Stevens hit on Cesar Chavez, and I tried shifting in the molded plastic seat, but nothing helped. Through the wire mesh, I watched the city slide past: taco trucks opening on Sixth Street, runners crossing at lights, people living normal lives. I used to be one of them.
Stevens’s radio crackled. “Unit 47, victim status stable, ICU at Dell Seton. Husband on scene.
Detective, major crimes.”
My stomach dropped. Victim. Someone was in the ICU, and her husband was a detective.
Stevens glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Hear that? Detective’s wife and their kid.” He paused.
“You picked the wrong family.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered. He didn’t respond. We pulled onto Eighth Street.
The station was a squat concrete fortress, bars on every window. Stevens parked underground, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, and guided me through a steel door into a hallway reeking of industrial cleaner. The booking area was a large room divided by a counter.
Behind it, a woman in her fifties, nameplate reading MARTINEZ, barely looked up from her computer. “Name?” she said flatly. “Reagan Sutton,” Stevens answered for me.
Martinez typed slowly. “DOB?” she asked. Stevens rattled off my information—my birth date, address, Social Security number—reducing me to data points.
“Charges,” she said. “Attempted murder, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, felony hit-and-run, child endangerment,” Stevens replied. “Child endangerment.
A seven-year-old,” Martinez said, finally looking at me, contempt plain on her face. “Fingerprints.”
She pressed my fingers one by one against a scanner. Then the mugshot: harsh lights, plain background, a placard with my name and a number.
I had nothing to empty from my pockets. No phone, no wallet, just pajamas. “Cell three,” Martinez told Stevens.
He walked me past holding cells: a man sleeping, a woman crying, someone shouting about lawyers. The smell was worse here—sweat and fear and something sour. Cell three was empty.
Stevens removed my cuffs and gestured inside. “Detective will come when he’s ready. Could be hours.”
The door clanged shut.
I sat on the cold metal bench, concrete walls pressing in. Eight by ten feet. No windows.
Just fluorescent lights humming and distant station sounds. “Jennifer Fiser,” I thought. The name from the paperwork rattled in my head.
Why was it familiar? I ran through my mental database—clients, coworkers, neighbors—nothing. I didn’t know a Jennifer Fiser.
But Fiser. Detective Robert Fiser. Major crimes.
I’d seen his name in the news months ago on some high-profile case. His wife was the victim, and their daughter. Oh God.
My hands shook. If the victim was a detective’s wife, the entire Austin Police Department would want results. They wouldn’t care about my alibi.
They’d see whatever evidence they had, and that would be enough. Cops protect their own, and I was their enemy now. I forced myself to focus on facts.
Last night, nine p.m., Zoom call with Singapore. Marcus Taylor, Patricia Reed, the whole team. Cloud recording, timestamps, witnesses.
That was my alibi. So why was I here? Footsteps echoed.
A woman in plain clothes—dark slacks, blazer, detective’s shield on her belt—stopped outside my cell. Forties, short brown hair, tired eyes. “Ms.
Sutton,” she said. “Someone posted your bail.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Your father’s attorney is here.
Gregory Palmer. Five hundred thousand dollar bond.”
“Five hundred thousand?” My voice sounded far away. “Your father,” she repeated.
Ice flooded my veins. I hadn’t called anyone. I had been arrested an hour ago.
How did he know? “I didn’t call him,” I said slowly. She shrugged.
“He called us. Said he got word.” She unlocked the cell. “You’re free to go for now.
Arraignment’s Friday.”
“Who told him?” I asked. “Don’t know. Maybe a neighbor.”
She gestured down the hall.
“Palmer’s waiting.”
A neighbor called at seven in the morning, within an hour, and my father—who I hadn’t spoken to in three months—immediately hired the most expensive attorney in Austin and posted half a million dollars. She led me to a consultation room. A man in a charcoal suit stood there, fifties, silver hair, courtroom confidence radiating off him.
“Ms. Sutton.” His voice was smooth. “Gregory Palmer.
Your father retained me this morning.”
I stared at him. “How did he know I was arrested?”
Palmer’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “News travels fast.
High-profile case. Detective’s family.”
“It happened at seven a.m.,” I said. “It’s not on the news yet.”
“Your father has connections.
Let’s focus on getting you home.”
“I need to know how,” I insisted. “Ms. Sutton.” His tone sharpened.
“Right now, you’re facing four felonies. Attempted harm to a police officer’s wife and child. The DA will push for maximum sentencing.
We need to discuss strategy, not logistics.”
My phone buzzed on the table. Martinez must have returned my belongings. I grabbed it.
Forty-seven missed calls. Texts from my father, Wallace: Stay calm. Don’t say anything.
Come to Westlake. From my mother, Margaret: Paige is devastated. Come home.
I stared at that last one. Paige is devastated. My sister.
Why would she be devastated? She didn’t even know I’d been arrested. I hadn’t told anyone.
Unless. “Ms. Sutton,” Palmer said, watching me carefully.
“I need to go to my apartment,” I said. “Get my laptop. Figure out what happened.”
“Your father wants you at the estate.
Family meeting.”
“Tell him I’ll come tonight,” I said. “I need answers first.”
Palmer’s jaw tightened. “Your father insists.”
“And I insist on going home,” I said.
I stood. “Thank you for posting bail. I’ll be in touch.”
I walked out before he could argue.
Outside the station, the morning sun was harsh after the fluorescent lights. September in Austin was still hot, humidity already building. I stood on the courthouse steps, freed but not free, and one thought burned through the confusion.
Something was very wrong. My father knew too fast. My mother mentioned Paige being devastated when Paige shouldn’t even know yet.
I pulled out my phone and opened the security app for my apartment building. I needed last night’s footage. I needed to see exactly what had happened while I was asleep.
The app loaded, and my blood went cold. Someone had accessed my account at 3:14 a.m. from an IP address I recognized immediately: Westlake Hills, my parents’ house.
Gregory Palmer was exactly the kind of lawyer my father would hire—expensive suit, colder eyes. The air conditioning in that room had been set too high, and I was still in pajamas, barefoot, bruises darkening on my wrists. Palmer, meanwhile, looked like he’d stepped out of a boardroom.
Money. That’s what Palmer represented. The kind that made problems disappear.
“Your father called me at seven this morning,” he’d said earlier, sliding a folder across the table. “Bail was set at five hundred thousand. We’ve posted it.
You’re free to go.”
I’d stared at the folder, not opening it. “How did he know I was arrested?” I’d asked. Palmer’s smile had been practiced.
“News travels fast in this city. High-profile case. A detective’s family.”
“It happened at seven a.m.
I’ve been here less than two hours. It’s not on the news,” I’d said. “Your father has connections.
Connections that told him you were arrested at your apartment at 6:47 this morning,” I’d replied. “Before anyone outside this building knew.”
Palmer’s smile had tightened. “I’m not privy to how your father received the information.
What matters is he acted quickly to secure your release.”
“Why?” I’d asked. The question had hung there. “You’re his daughter,” Palmer had said.
“I haven’t spoken to him in three months.”
“Family is family, Ms. Sutton.”
Now, standing on the courthouse steps, I scrolled through the messages again. My father: Stay calm.
Don’t say anything. Come to Westlake. Sent at 7:14 a.m., thirty minutes after my arrest.
My mother: Paige is devastated. Come home. Sent at 7:22 a.m.
How did they know? I signed the release paperwork, barely reading it, and pushed through the station doors into blinding September sun. The heat hit me like a wall.
Austin in September—still summer, humidity thick, the kind of weather that made you sweat just standing still. The courthouse steps were nearly empty, except for a guy smoking a cigarette and a woman arguing into her phone. Normal people with normal problems.
I stood there, freed but not free, and pulled up my contacts. I needed to call my boss, explain why I wouldn’t be at work, explain that I’d been arrested for attempted murder, but it was a mistake, a horrible mistake. But first, I needed to know what had happened last night.
I opened the app for my apartment building’s security system. I was listed as a resident and had access to hallway cameras, lobby footage. If someone had come to my door, if something had happened, it would be recorded.
The app loaded slowly, my phone struggling on the station’s weak Wi-Fi. Then the login screen appeared. Last login: 3:14 a.m., September 17, 2024.
IP address: 198.51.100.47. Westlake Hills, Texas. My parents’ house.
Someone had accessed my security account at 3:14 a.m., four hours before my arrest, from my parents’ estate twelve miles away. My hands started shaking. Wallace and Margaret lived at 1847 Westlake Drive.
I knew that IP address. I’d set up their home network five years ago when they bought the place. Someone in my family had logged into my security system in the middle of the night, checking the cameras, watching me—or deleting footage.
I looked back at the police station, then at my phone, then at the messages from my father demanding I come home. And I understood. This wasn’t a mistake.
This was a setup. My apartment felt different when I stepped back inside. The space that had always been my sanctuary—minimalist furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lady Bird Lake, a small balcony where I drank coffee every morning—now felt like a crime scene.
Not because anything had been touched. Because everything was exactly as I’d left it two hours ago when three cops had kicked in my door and dragged me out in handcuffs. The espresso machine was still warm.
My mug sat on the counter, half full of cold coffee. My laptop was open on the dining table, screen dark but humming softly in sleep mode. I locked the door behind me—double lock, deadbolt, chain—and leaned against it for a moment, breathing.
“Focus, Reagan,” I told myself. I had maybe six hours before my father expected me at the Westlake estate. Six hours to figure out what was going on.
Six hours to find out who had stolen my identity, ruined my life, and framed me for attempted murder. I set my phone on the counter and opened my laptop. The screen lit up immediately.
Password autofilled. Browser tabs still open from last night: my work dashboard, the Singapore client Zoom recording, a half-written report on network vulnerabilities for a logistics firm in Dallas. Everything normal.
Everything routine. Except it wasn’t. I opened a new terminal window and pulled up my personal security dashboard, a custom-built system I’d designed three years ago when I first moved to Austin.
Motion sensors, door locks, camera feeds, access logs. The whole apartment was wired, monitored, encrypted. I scrolled to last night.
September 16, 2024, 9:00 p.m. Front door locked. Motion sensor: living room.
User: Reagan Sutton. 9:02 p.m. Laptop activity.
Zoom meeting initiated. 10:14 p.m. Zoom meeting ended.
Motion sensor: kitchen. 10:47 p.m. Streaming login detected.
11:32 p.m. Motion sensor: bedroom. Lights off.
6:30 a.m. Motion sensor: bedroom. Lights on.
Perfect. A complete digital alibi. But the cops hadn’t cared about my alibi.
They’d cared about a driver’s license found at the scene of a hit-and-run. My driver’s license. I closed the laptop and walked to my bedroom.
My wallet was still on the nightstand where I’d left it last night. I picked it up and flipped it open. Credit cards.
SecureNet Solutions employee badge. Costco membership. Insurance card.
A twenty-dollar bill. No driver’s license. I stared at the empty plastic sleeve.
When was the last time I’d actually seen my license? I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking. I didn’t drive much.
Austin traffic was brutal and I lived downtown. Everything I needed was within walking distance or a quick rideshare. My Tesla Model 3 spent most of its time in the building’s garage, fully charged and rarely used.
The last time I’d driven anywhere was two weeks ago. Three. No, wait.
The gym. I stood up, heart pounding. Two months ago—late July.
I’d gone to Lifetime Fitness in Westlake Hills, my old gym, the one near my parents’ house. I’d been visiting for some family obligation I couldn’t quite remember now. A birthday, a dinner.
I’d brought my gym bag: workout clothes, towel, water bottle, and my wallet. I’d locked everything in a locker, gone for a forty-five-minute spin class, showered, and left. I hadn’t checked my wallet.
Why would I? I hadn’t bought anything. I’d just thrown it back in my bag and driven home.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. I grabbed my phone and opened my photos app, scrolling back to July. There—July 21, 2024.
A picture of me and Paige at the Westlake estate. Sunday brunch on the back patio. She was wearing a white sundress, smiling at the camera.
I was in workout clothes, hair still damp from the gym. The timestamp: 11:47 a.m. I zoomed in on the background.
My gym bag was on the patio chair behind us, open. I felt the blood drain from my face. Paige had been at the house that morning.
We’d gone to brunch together after my workout. She’d helped me carry my stuff inside. She’d had access to my gym bag, to my wallet, to my driver’s license.
I sat back down on the bed, staring at the photo. No. Paige was my sister.
She was spoiled, yes. Selfish, absolutely. A little narcissistic, maybe.
But she wasn’t a criminal. She wouldn’t steal my license. She wouldn’t frame me for attempted murder.
Would she? I thought about the text my mother had sent this morning. Paige is devastated.
Come home, sweetie. Falling apart. Why?
I opened my messages and scrolled back through the last few weeks. Nothing from Paige. We hadn’t texted since early August—a brief exchange about whether I’d be coming to her engagement party.
I’d said no. She’d sent back a passive-aggressive emoji and gone silent. That was normal.
Paige and I weren’t close. We hadn’t been close in years. But stealing my license, framing me for a felony—that wasn’t just “not close.” That was sabotage.
I opened my laptop again and pulled up the building security log. September 17, 2024, 3:14 a.m. External login detected.
IP: 198.51.100.47. Westlake Hills, Texas. User: admin override.
Access granted. Whoever had logged in from Westlake at 3:14 in the morning—two hours before the cops showed up—had known exactly when to check my apartment security system. They’d known I’d have an alibi.
They’d known I’d be home. And they’d called the police anyway. I stood up, shoved my phone in my pocket.
I wasn’t going to wait until tonight. I was going to Westlake right now, and I was going to find out what my family had done. The drive to Westlake Hills felt like driving into enemy territory.
I took the long way down South Congress, across the river, then west on Bee Cave Road. The sun was setting over the hills, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and deep pink. Golden hour—the kind of Texas evening that made tourists pull over and take photos.
I kept my eyes on the road. By the time I reached the Westlake gate, my hands were steady on the wheel, but my heart was pounding. I punched in the code—my birthday, same as it had been for fifteen years—and the iron gate swung open.
1847 Westlake Drive sat at the end of a tree-lined private road. Three stories, white columns, a circular driveway with a fountain in the center. The kind of house that screamed old money, even though my father had only bought it twelve years ago when his hedge fund hit eight figures.
Every window was lit. I parked my Tesla behind my mother’s Mercedes and sat for a moment, staring at the front door. “Focus, Reagan.”
I grabbed my phone, took a breath, and stepped out.
The door opened before I could knock. Wallace Sutton stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Sixty-one years old, silver hair, navy suit.
Even at six in the evening, he looked like he’d just walked out of a boardroom. “About time,” he said. “We need to talk.”
I stepped inside without a word.
The foyer was exactly as I remembered it. White marble floors, crystal chandelier, a massive oil painting of the Texas Hill Country on the far wall. The air smelled like lavender and money.
Margaret appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was smaller than I remembered, her blonde bob perfectly styled, her linen blouse wrinkle-free. She crossed the room quickly, reaching for me.
“Oh, Reagan, sweetheart, this is terrible. Are you okay?”
I stepped back before she could touch me. “How did you know I was arrested?” I asked.
Wallace’s jaw tightened. “Gregory called me. Now sit down.
We need a strategy.”
He turned and walked into the living room without waiting for an answer. Margaret hovered for a moment, then followed. I stayed where I was, looking around.
The house felt different. It always did. No matter how many years I’d spent here growing up, it never felt like mine.
It was Wallace’s house. Wallace’s rules. Wallace’s money.
I walked into the living room. Wallace sat in his leather armchair—the one no one else was allowed to sit in—with a glass of scotch in one hand. Margaret perched on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap.
Both of them looked at me like I was a problem to be solved. “Gregory said the evidence is circumstantial,” Wallace began. “Your driver’s license.
An anonymous tip. We can fight this.”
“Anonymous tip,” I said. “What tip?”
Margaret’s hands twisted in her lap.
“Someone called 911. They said they saw a woman matching your description running from the scene.”
“Who called?” I asked. Wallace’s voice turned sharp.
“Anonymous. That’s what anonymous means.”
I stared at him. He was lying.
I could see it in the way his knuckles tightened around the glass, in the way Margaret wouldn’t meet my eyes. They knew who had called. Before I could say anything, footsteps echoed from the kitchen.
“Reagan.”
Paige appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, mascara smudged. She wore an oversized cashmere sweater and yoga pants, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looked like she’d been crying for hours.
She rushed toward me, arms open. I stood but didn’t move. Paige stopped a foot away, her smile faltering.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Her voice cracked. “I can’t believe this is happening. Jennifer Fiser is the best friend of my wedding coordinator.
This is just awful.”
I went very still. “Your wedding coordinator knows Jennifer?” I asked. Paige blinked.
“I mean, well, Austin’s small. Everyone knows everyone, right?”
I watched her carefully. The tears were real.
Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy. But something else was off. Her hands were trembling, but her gaze was sharp, alert.
She wasn’t breaking down. She was performing. “Paige,” I said slowly.
“Where were you last night at 9:14?”
The room went silent. Wallace set his glass down hard. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
I kept my eyes on Paige.
“A simple one. Where were you?”
Paige’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I—I was here.
At home. With Mom and Dad. We had dinner.”
I turned to Margaret.
“Is that true?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Yes, we all had dinner together.”
“What did you eat?” I asked.
Margaret hesitated. “I made chicken. Roasted chicken.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Seven,” Wallace cut in. “We ate at seven. Paige was here all night.
What are you trying to imply, Reagan?”
I stood up. Paige took a step back. “I’m not implying anything,” I said.
“I’m asking questions. Because someone used my driver’s license to ruin a woman’s life last night. Someone logged into my building security system at three in the morning from this address.
What happened next changed everything…
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