I glanced at Robert. He stirred but didn’t wake. “It wasn’t an accident,” I said. “Our son tried to kill us.”

Reynolds blinked. “Ma’am, could you repeat that?”

I told him everything — the shove, the whispers, the sound of the engine fading into the mountain mist. He didn’t interrupt, though I saw skepticism flicker across his face. Parents accusing their own child of murder didn’t fit into normal reports.

When I finished, he scribbled a note. “We’ll start by looking for your vehicle. If your story holds, we’ll find evidence near the cliff.”

Evidence. The word felt cold, mechanical — so unlike the blood and betrayal that still pulsed through me.