At 3 AM, my neighbor John broke down my door with a group of people, claiming I’d hit someone with my car and fled the scene. One of them grabbed me by the collar and yelled: “It was you! You hit my dad and drove off. I got your license plate number. My dad’s in the ICU right now, unconscious! You’re taking full responsibility for this!” He shoved his phone in my face, showing me photo evidence. His wife stood beside him holding their child, wailing dramatically. Still half-asleep, I had no idea what was happening. “What does this have to do with me?” The crowd joined in, pointing fingers: “Hit someone and still managed to sleep—how cold-blooded! How can we have a criminal like this living here!” Hit someone? I’m red-green colorblind. I can’t even drive! “Sir, please calm down,” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t leave my apartment today. You must have the wrong person.” John lived in the unit below mine. We usually nodded to each other when we crossed paths. But right now, he looked like he wanted to eat me alive. He shoved his phone screen in my face. “Wrong person? Is this your license plate or not?” The screen showed the rear of a Porsche Panamera, the plate number clear as day: A123. I squinted at it for two seconds and nodded. “That’s my car, but I—” “So you admit it!” He turned to the other neighbors. “Everyone heard that, right? The car is hers!” The hallway erupted. “That’s rich people for you—hit someone and won’t own up to it.” “Look at her face, acting all innocent.” His wife pushed through with the child in her arms and collapsed to her knees, sobbing hysterically: “Please, I’m begging you! My dad’s on a ventilator. The surgery costs $30,000.” “It’s nothing to you, but it’ll destroy our family. You can’t just let him die!” My scalp prickled. I quickly tried to help her up. “Please get up first. We haven’t even figured out what happened—” “It’s crystal clear!” John grabbed my arm. “I saw it with my own eyes! Your car ran a red light and sent my dad flying twenty feet!” Finally fully awake, anger flared inside me: “I didn’t drive anywhere today! Just because you say I hit him means I did?” “Thirty thousand dollars? Why not say three hundred thousand? I could just as easily say you’re trying to rob me!” The moment the words left my mouth, John’s hand connected with my face. The slap sent me stumbling back two steps, my ears ringing. “Bullshit!” He jabbed his finger at my nose. “My father is dying!” “If you don’t pay up, I’ll call the cops right now and have you thrown in jail! You won’t get away with this!” Someone in the hallway cheered him on: “Good! People like her need to be taught a lesson!” The neighbors grew more agitated. “Don’t waste your breath on her—call the police! Lock her up!” His wife knelt on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, the child wailing along with her. Camera flashes went off in my face. I covered my cheek and slowly straightened. “Fine. Call the police.” John froze. “Didn’t you say you’d call them? Go ahead.” I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. I turned, pulled something from my bedside table, and slapped it against his chest. “While you’re at it, have them explain how someone who’s red-green colorblind and can’t drive managed to hit your dad!” John stared down at the red-green colorblindness certificate for three seconds. The shouting from the hallway stopped. Someone muttered quietly, “Red-green colorblind? Doesn’t that mean she can’t get a license?” “John, could you have… gotten the wrong person?” I pointed at the paper in his hands. “See it clearly? It’s got an official stamp. Can you read?” John’s face went from pale to flushed and back again. The next second, he threw the paper on the ground. “You think one piece of paper can fool me?” “You can afford a Porsche Panamera, but you don’t have a license?” He stepped closer. “Besides, if you really are colorblind, that means you were driving without a license! That makes it even worse!” The others nodded in sudden understanding. “Right! She almost tricked us!” “No wonder she ran the red light—she can’t tell the colors apart at all!” I had no interest in continuing this pointless argument. “Fine,” I pulled out my phone. “Like I said, let’s call the police. We’ll see if I’m playing dumb or if you’re trying to scam me.” “Go ahead! Call them! We’ll see who they arrest when they get here!” John snarled. The call connected. I gave them the address and explained the situation. After hanging up, I leaned against the doorframe without another word. John kept ranting: “You’re calling the police now just to stall until my dad dies!” “Don’t think you can get away with this. No matter what, I’m sending you to prison.” “Shut up,” I said coldly. “Your dad’s not dead yet. Why are you so eager to curse him? Afraid he’ll die and you’ll get less money?”
John’s expression changed instantly. “Say that again!” He lunged at me, but his wife grabbed him and held him back. I was about to respond when sirens wailed from downstairs. John rushed toward them like he’d found his savior: “Officers! It’s her! She ran a red light and hit my dad, then refused to admit it!” The police officer looked me over. “Are you the owner of vehicle A123?” “Yes.” “Did you hit someone?” “No.” John panicked. “It was her! I saw it with my own eyes!” The officer waved for him to be quiet and turned back to me. “Miss, you say you didn’t hit anyone. Do you have proof?” I picked up the certificate from the floor and handed it over. The officer opened it and paused. “Red-green colorblind?” “Yes.” I nodded. The officer frowned. “Then how did you get this car?” “It’s a keepsake from my father,” I paused. “But I can’t drive it, so it’s always been parked in the garage.” “The dealership comes to pick it up for maintenance. There are records.” John sneered. “Keep making stuff up! You think the cops will believe you?” The officer ignored him and turned to the property manager. “Pull up the security footage.” The manager scratched his head. “Well, we had that heavy snow a couple days ago, right?” “It damaged some of the wiring. The parking garage cameras are down—we haven’t had a chance to fix them yet…” My heart sank. What a coincidence. John immediately perked up. “The footage is gone? Your evidence disappeared! Bet you’re thrilled!” The officer frowned. “Sir, please remain quiet.” “We have our own procedures. Without clear evidence, please show this woman some respect.” He turned to me. “Miss, does your car have a dashcam?” “Yes.” “May we take a look?” I nodded, grabbed the car keys from the living room cabinet, and handed them over. The group went downstairs to the underground garage. The officer had just reached the front of the car and hadn’t even opened the door yet. Suddenly John rushed forward and threw himself onto the hood, his voice cracking with excitement: “Officers! Come look at this!” He pointed at the front bumper. “What is this?” I walked over and used my phone light to see. On the right side of the bumper was a fresh scrape mark with a bloodstain on it.
The crowd erupted: “There’s no denying it now! The car’s got such a huge dent!” “She was so stubborn before—let’s see what she says now!” John’s wife rushed forward with the child, pointing at the bloodstain. “That’s my dad’s blood… What do you have to say for yourself now?” My head was spinning. Impossible. I never drove the car. The officer crouched down, shining his flashlight on the mark, his brow furrowed. “Miss, how do you explain this?” I opened my mouth, my voice dry. “I don’t know… I really never drove the car.” John sneered. “Don’t know? It’s your car, the blood’s right here, and you don’t know?” The officer stood up and looked at me. “Miss, we need to collect samples for testing. Please cooperate with the investigation and come with us.” My instincts told me that if I went with them now, things would only get worse. Could someone else have driven my car and caused an accident? “Okay.” I nodded. “But I have one request—let me make a phone call first to verify something.” The officer nodded. I pulled out my phone and called the dealership’s service manager, putting it on speaker. “Manager, this is Russell. Quick question—has anyone touched my car recently?” There was a two-second pause on the other end. “Your car? No.” “The last service was two weeks ago. After we finished, we parked it back in its spot. The keys have been with you the whole time. No one here has touched it.” “Are you sure?” “Positive. Our dealership has a policy—every time a customer’s vehicle goes in or out, we log it.” The call ended. The officer looked at me. I held my phone, my mind racing. So where did this scrape come from? Where did the blood come from? The murmuring in the crowd grew louder. John was energized. “Given up yet? It couldn’t have been anyone but you!” He grabbed my arm. “Let’s go! You’re paying me that $30,000 today!” I stumbled from the force, hitting the car door. My head struck the window frame, the pain making my vision go dark. In that instant, my eyes caught sight of the small black box attached to the windshield inside the car. The dashcam! “Wait!” I grabbed the car door and wouldn’t let go. “I want to see the dashcam footage right now!”
John froze, then sneered. “What good is a last-ditch struggle? Planning to pull another trick?” I ignored him and looked at the officer. “Officer, if I really hit someone, there must be footage in the dashcam!” The officer nodded, opened the car door, and removed the memory card from the dashcam. “Alright, let’s watch it now.” The footage loaded. Everyone held their breath, watching the progress bar crawl forward. John crowded in. “Fast forward! Don’t waste time! Yesterday at 6:34 PM—that’s when my dad got hit!” The officer frowned but hit fast forward anyway. The footage sped past, showing nothing but the gray parking garage wall. The knot in my chest loosened slightly. It seemed my car really had been parked here the whole time, never moved. The timestamp jumped to 6:30 PM yesterday. In the footage, my car suddenly started and drove out of the underground garage. My heart dropped. The car approached an intersection. The light was red, but the car showed no sign of slowing down. It drove straight through. An elderly man on the crosswalk couldn’t dodge in time. He was hit and sent flying twenty feet, landing hard on the pavement. The car didn’t stop at all—it simply made a U-turn and left. John shoved his phone in my face, his voice shaking: “See that? That’s my dad! What do you have to say now?” “You wanted evidence—there it is! What, you hit someone and don’t remember? Think you have multiple personalities? Acting like you have amnesia to escape reality?” “Let me tell you something—you’re paying for the medical bills! Thirty thousand dollars, not a penny less!” But I said nothing, just stared at the screen. I dragged the progress bar back and forth, watching that segment over and over. Once, twice, three times, trying to find any flaw. But the more I watched, the more confused I became. The crowd completely lost it: “The evidence is right there!” “What are you waiting for? Arrest her!” “Lock her up! Charge her!” I was shoved around, surrounded by cursing voices. The officer held back the surging crowd. Just as he was about to speak, his radio crackled. “Copy that. Copy that.” After listening, his expression darkened. He turned to me and reached for his handcuffs. “Russell, forensics just sent word. The blood on your car’s bumper has been tested. The DNA matches…” He paused. “Bradley, John’s father.” He stepped forward and the handcuffs clicked around my wrists. “You’re under arrest for hit-and-run.” Some in the crowd applauded and cheered. Others took photos. I was pushed toward the police car. My feet stumbled. My mind went blank. Impossible. Truly impossible. I’d never driven a car. I couldn’t drive. But the footage clearly recorded the entire crime. Could I really have multiple personalities? Did I kill someone and not remember? Wait. Something’s wrong. I stopped abruptly. The officer frowned. “Get in the car. Please cooperate with the investigation. Don’t waste time.” The dashcam video was still playing on a loop. “Officer,” my voice trembled, “can I watch that video one more time?” John cursed from the side. “Still trying to deny it? Officers, don’t let her stall for time. Just take her away!” The officer stopped him, hesitated for a moment, then handed me the phone. I dragged the progress bar back to the beginning. The car left the garage, passed the first intersection, red light, hit the person, made a U-turn, returned to the complex. I watched it again. Suddenly, my eyes locked onto a detail. Of course! The trick was right here! I looked up sharply. “I know who the real culprit is!”
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