When my year-end bonus came through, I bought Grandpa Murphy a paper car offering.

The very next day, the police showed up at my door. They said my grandfather had been involved in a hit-and-run and demanded I hand him over.

The victim's family member lunged at me like a man possessed, grabbing my collar and screaming in my face.

"Hand over that old bastard right now!"

"He hit my father so hard the man's paralyzed from the waist down! He's still lying in the ICU!"

I explained over and over that there was no way my grandfather had hit anyone.

But he refused to listen. He even brought people to my office and trashed my workstation.

He strung up a banner outside the company building, hurling curses for everyone to hear.

"Until that old bastard shows his face, I'm not going anywhere."

"Let's see who outlasts who."

I took a deep breath and held up the purchase receipt on my phone.

Everyone's jaw dropped.

——

A massive banner hung outside the company building, and a crowd had gathered, whispering and pointing.

MURDEROUS OLD MAN, GIVE MY FATHER BACK HIS LIFE!

The man leading the spectacle knelt on the ground in mourning clothes, sobbing. Both his eyes were swollen and raw from crying.

"Your whole family is scum! You did this to my father, and now you think you can just deny it?"

Employees packed the sidewalk, rubbernecking, their judgmental stares sweeping over me again and again.

I'd been with this company since graduating college. My talent had carried me to a director-level position at a young age, which had earned me no small amount of jealousy.

Now that someone had handed them ammunition against me, they weren't about to let the opportunity pass.

"If you hit someone, own up to it. What kind of person flees the scene?"

"Look at her, playing innocent. If you didn't know better, you'd actually think we had the wrong person."

"Wrong person? The victim's family tracked her down at her workplace. Who would use their own father's life to frame somebody?"

Michael Young fed off the crowd's support, his spine straightening with every word of encouragement.

He bared his teeth and lunged toward me.

"My father is eighty-three years old! At his age, he has to suffer like this, and you people won't lift a finger? You're trying to dodge responsibility!"

"Everyone here has parents. How can you do something like this and still call yourselves human?"

I drew a slow breath and locked eyes with him, speaking each word with deliberate precision.

"There is no way my grandfather hit your father."

"Your behavior today has already disrupted my life. If you don't leave now, I'm calling the police."

Right and wrong weren't determined by one man running his mouth.

If he wanted to claim my grandfather hit someone, he'd better produce the evidence.

The moment the words left my lips, he erupted.

He dropped to the ground, slapping his thighs, wailing at the top of his lungs.

"Officer, would you look at this? Look how arrogant she is!"

"She hits someone and won't even apologize. Now she's threatening me!"

The officer standing nearby looked equally displeased. He shot me a hard look and said coldly:

"You'd better hand your grandfather over. Hit-and-run is a serious charge. Even if he's elderly, the law still applies."

"He's old enough that maybe he doesn't understand that. But surely you do?"

Of course I understood how serious a hit-and-run charge was. But my grandfather truly couldn't come.

Michael's stunt today had made a spectacle right outside the building, dealing real damage to the company's image. My boss hadn't said anything, but there was no way he was happy about it.

Michael's eyes darted, and he adopted a magnanimous pose, as if he were doing me a favor.

"How about this. What's done is done. Talking in circles won't change anything."

"Give me a hundred thousand dollars. Consider it my father's medical bills and emotional damages. We can settle the ongoing care costs separately..."

He rattled on and on, and I nearly laughed out loud.

So this was his real game all along.

He was trying to shake me down.

"My grandfather didn't hit anyone. I'm not paying a cent."

"You know perfectly well what really happened to your father. Don't try to scam me!"

I shot them a cold glance and let out a scoff.

"You say my grandfather hit someone? Then show me proof. Nobody's going to take your word for it."

The moment the words left my mouth, Michael Young's face twisted with rage.

A vein bulged at his temple. He drew his leg back and kicked me hard in the stomach.

"You think I'd come after you without proof?!"

"Plate number 0817. You gonna tell me that's not your grandfather's car?"

The second I heard those numbers, cold sweat slid down my spine.

0817. Grandpa's birthday.

And yes, the plate number on the little car I'd bought him. There was no denying that.

But how? How was that possible?

I knew, deep in my bones, that my grandfather would never have hit someone with a car. Yet Michael had said it with such conviction that even I felt a flicker of doubt creep in.

The color must have drained from my face, because Officer Elliot Chavez's expression turned even more severe. His voice came down like a gavel.

"We reviewed the surveillance footage and identified the plate number of the vehicle involved."

"That plate is registered to your grandfather's car. It's been confirmed. What else could you possibly have to say?"

Michael's kick had landed with every ounce of force he had. My lower abdomen throbbed in waves of pain, and I couldn't stop a sharp hiss from escaping through my teeth.

Hearing those words on top of it sent an icy chill flooding through my entire body.

That plate number. I'd picked it up just days ago. I'd chosen it on sight because it matched Grandpa's birthday.

So how could it have ended up on a different car?

The crowd was swelling by the minute, and the police had no intention of letting the situation spiral into a public incident. They tore down every banner Michael had hung, dispersed the onlookers, and brought us all back to the station.

The whole way there, Michael cursed me out at the top of his lungs while Officer Chavez kept pressing me to come clean about where my grandfather was.

I only had one answer, and I repeated it over and over.

"I don't know. My grandfather didn't hit anyone."

When I still refused to talk, Officer Chavez let out a sigh.

"The victim's family has already filed a lawsuit. If you won't cooperate, this is going to court."

"And when it does, the damages will be a lot steeper. Think it over."

I almost smiled.

Court sounded perfect.

Exactly what I wanted.

Soon enough, the court summons arrived. The hearing was set for three days out.

That gave me time to find a lawyer and figure out a proper defense.

But the moment I stepped out of the station, a rotten egg smashed into my forehead. The stench hit me like a wall.

A mob had gathered at the entrance, so thick that even the officers on duty couldn't hold them back.

They were seething, fingers jabbing in my direction, voices raw with fury.

"That old monster raised a little monster! Old Mr. Young is the kindest soul in our whole town. He saved my life when he was young! And look what your family did to him!"

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. The old man was rotten, so of course his kid's no better!"

"Hits a man and doesn't even have the guts to own up to it. Coward! Disgusting!"

Rotten egg dripped down my hair, wet strands plastered to my face. The stench churned my stomach so violently I clapped a hand over my mouth, fighting not to vomit.

One voice piled on top of another, all of them determined to pin this crime on me.

Then someone snatched a rock off the ground and hurled it straight at my head.

A bolt of pain split across my forehead, and the world before my eyes flooded red.

Blood smeared across my entire face, the metallic taste filling my mouth.

I trembled with rage, my gaze locking onto the man in the crowd.

Michael Young glared at me with undisguised hatred, still whipping everyone into a frenzy.

"My father served his country honorably his whole life and never wronged a soul. Nobody expected that in his old age he'd suffer something like this. He's still lying in the ICU, unable to get up!"

"I'm begging all of you, help us get justice. Make sure the person responsible pays for what they've done!"

The crowd's fury swelled. I was trapped in the center, and someone kicked me hard from behind where no one could see. Then again. And again.

Officer Chavez arrived just in time, pushing through the mob and dispersing them before pulling me free.

My face was a patchwork of bruises, my clothes stained with splotches of yellow. Up close, the stench was unmistakable.

"Just you wait. I trust the court will give my father the justice he deserves!"

Michael shot me one last venomous look before turning on his heel and leaving.

Once he got home, he uploaded a wildly exaggerated account of the whole incident online.

Countless strangers sneered at me and my grandfather. The comment sections were a wall of hate, every last one cursing us.

With the trial date approaching, not a single lawyer was willing to take my case.

In the end, the court had to appoint one for me before the trial could proceed.

Abner Finch had no intention of so much as speaking to me. He swept a sour look over my face and rolled his eyes.

"A guaranteed loss. What's even the point of going to trial? Defending someone like you is an embarrassment to my reputation."

I ignored his snide remarks and settled calmly into the defendant's seat.

Because I knew the truth.

This case?

I was going to win.

What I hadn't expected was that just before the proceedings began, Michael suddenly wheeled in an old man.

The old man had a tube running from his nose, his cheeks gaunt, his expression dazed and vacant.

This had to be the father he kept going on about, the one my grandfather had supposedly hit.

I glanced at him with a flicker of contempt. Michael really was pulling out all the stops to win this case. His father hadn't even left the ICU and he'd already wheeled him into the courtroom.

Once the trial began, Michael struck first, jabbing a finger at me and snarling through clenched teeth:

"My father is old. His legs aren't what they used to be. He was just walking down the street, minding his own business, when that reckless old bastard came barreling out in his car."

"The wheels rolled right over my father's legs. Both of them shattered. Broken ribs punctured his lungs. It took two days of emergency surgery to bring him back!"

His words, paired with the old man's empty pant legs dangling from the wheelchair, struck a nerve with everyone in the room.

The story had already gone viral online, and the trial had drawn a crowd of spectators eager to watch in person.

The gallery was packed. People pointed at me, shouting their accusations.

"That poor old man, at his age he should be living out his final years in peace. Instead he runs into these monsters."

"The one who actually did it doesn't even have the guts to show his face. What, is he planning to let his granddaughter rot in prison for him?"

"Maybe she's happy to take the fall. She still won't give him up. How touching. What a devoted little granddaughter."

Their curses cut into me like knives, but I set my jaw and fired back without flinching.

"You keep saying my grandfather hit him. So which one of you actually saw my grandfather behind the wheel?"

"You're going to condemn someone based on a license plate number alone? Don't you think that's a little reckless?"

The plaintiff's lawyer, clearly well-compensated for his enthusiasm, argued back fiercely.

"Our investigation has confirmed that the vehicle registered under plate number 0817 belongs to your grandfather."

"The probability of a duplicate plate number is virtually zero. What excuse could you possibly have left?"

A cold smile crossed my lips. I cast a dismissive glance at the photograph in their hands.