Chapter 2: The Missing Service Record
Detective Miller stepped into the room, his boots making no sound on the carpeted floor, and closed the door behind him. Mia, the nurse, finally found her voice. “Is... is everything okay here? I can get the charge nurse if you need-”
“Stay,” Detective Miller said, not taking his eyes off Ethan. “I need a witness to this conversation.”
Mia’s face turned white, but she nodded and moved back to the counter by the door, her hands clasped tightly in front of her scrub top. Ethan shifted from foot to foot, his eyes darting between Clara and the detective, and Clara felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. She’d never seen her husband look so scared.
“Detective,” Ethan said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s this about? The accident was a terrible mistake. Clara’s a great driver, but sometimes she gets distracted. I told her she should have gotten her brakes checked, but-”
“Your wife’s car didn’t have a brake failure,” Detective Miller said, cutting him off. He flipped open the manila folder and pulled out a stack of photos, sliding them across the table to Clara. The photos were close-ups of the front left brake line on her car, the metal tube snapped clean in two, with a fresh, clean cut along the edge. Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She’d seen the damage to her car after the crash, but she hadn’t looked this closely. The cut wasn’t from the accident. It was deliberate.
“Who did this?” she whispered, her hands shaking as she picked up the photos. Ethan leaned over the table, trying to grab one, but Detective Miller slammed his hand down on the paper, stopping him.
“First, let’s talk about the service records,” Detective Miller said. “Your car was last serviced at Midas on Main Street three weeks ago, according to your receipt. But when we called the shop, they said they have no record of your car ever being there. No appointment, no work done, nothing.”
Clara’s blood ran cold. She’d kept the receipt taped to the fridge, a crumpled piece of paper with the Midas logo printed on it. She’d shown it to Ethan the night she’d gotten the service done, telling him she’d finally gotten around to fixing the loose brake pedal he’d been complaining about for months. “You said you wanted me to get the brakes checked,” she’d said, and he’d kissed her on the forehead and said, “Good job, baby.”
But now, looking at the photos of the cut brake line, she realized that Ethan had never wanted her to get the brakes checked. He’d been faking concern this whole time.
“I... I have the receipt,” she said, her voice trembling. She reached for her purse on the chair by the door, but Ethan stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Clara, don’t-”
“Step away from the patient,” Detective Miller said, his voice sharp. He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt loop, and Ethan froze, his eyes wide with fear. “I need to speak to Mrs. Bennett alone, nurse. Can you make sure no one interrupts us?”
Mia nodded and walked over to the door, turning the lock and leaning against it. Ethan’s face turned red with anger again, but he didn’t move. “You can’t do this. This is a mistake. I’m a respected member of this community. My mom is the president of the church ladies’ auxiliary. You can’t arrest me.”
Detective Miller didn’t answer. He pulled a stack of papers from his folder and handed them to Clara. The first page was a police report, dated three days prior, with a note scrawled in the margin: Victim: Clara Bennett, Suspect: Ethan Bennett. The next page was a list of text messages between Ethan and a man named Lyle’s Auto Repair-no contact name, just a phone number that Clara recognized as Ethan’s work cell. The texts were dated two weeks before the accident:
Ethan: Need you to cut a brake line for me. Will pay $500 cash.
Lyle: You sure this is a good idea? It looks like murder.
Ethan: It’s not murder. She’s just going to have a little “accident.” She’ll be fine, just sore for a few weeks. Then we’ll be free of her mom’s charity cases.
Lyle: Alright, man. But I’m not taking responsibility if it goes wrong.
Ethan: It won’t go wrong. I’ll make sure she’s driving at 2 AM on Oakwood, the stretch with no cameras.
Clara’s hands shook so bad the papers slipped from her grasp. She’d known Ethan had been distant lately, that he’d been staying late at work, that he’d been snappy and short-tempered with their 12-year-old daughter, Lila. But she’d never thought he’d want to hurt her. She’d married him right out of college, moved to his small hometown in Ohio, left her family in California to be with him. She’d given up her dream of becoming a teacher to stay home and take care of Lila, to host the neighborhood potlucks, to be the perfect wife and mother. And this was how he’d repaid her.
“Who is Lyle?” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. Ethan stepped forward again, his voice breaking.
“Clara, it’s not what it looks like. Those texts are fake. Someone hacked my phone. I would never-”
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“Save it,” Detective Miller said. He pulled out his phone and tapped a few times, then held it up to Clara’s ear. A man’s voice came through the speaker, rough and shaky: “Yeah, Ethan paid me to cut the brake line. Said his wife was a burden, that he wanted to collect on her life insurance policy. I didn’t know it was going to be this bad. I’m sorry.”
Clara closed her eyes. She’d seen the life insurance policy on the kitchen table last month, a thick stack of papers with a $500,000 payout listed on the first page. Ethan had told her it was just a “routine update,” that he’d added Lila and her to the policy to make sure they were protected. She’d laughed and said, “We don’t need that, honey. We have each other.” But now she realized he’d been lying the whole time. He’d been planning her death for months, using her own carelessness against her, making it look like a tragic accident.
