Free Long Drive Home by Will Allison Page A

case.”
    I nodded, trying to play it cool. “So that’s it?”
    “Yeah, depending on the autopsy.”
    I felt as if my knees might buckle, the relief was so huge. I asked if they’d ever found out where Juwan had been in such a hurry to get to.
    Rizzo said they weren’t sure. “But we know where he was coming from. He’d just left his girlfriend’s house.”
    “Were they fighting?”
    “Apparently the opposite,” he said. “And drinking. His friends say he wasn’t much of a drinker, though. He was probably a lot worse off than he realized.” He noticed me looking at the folder and smiled like I’d caught him at something. “I did want to ask you about these, though,” he said, pulling out a couple of eight-by-tens. “My ex, she tells me I have an inability to leave well enough alone.” They were photographs of the crash scene. He tapped one of them. “Right here. It looks like you overshot your driveway a little. Then I remembered, when the tow truck got here, I think you had to back up so you could pull in. Am I right?”
    My scalp tightened as I began to see what he was getting at: if I’d been waiting for Juwan to pass so I could pull into my driveway, why would I have overshot it? He’d probably figured out that I’d started to turn, then didn’t, then had to keep going to get back into my lane. I looked from one photo to the other, trying not to panic.
    “Maybe it’s the angle.”
    He shook his head. “We got it from a couple angles. See?”
    I studied the photos some more. A breeze was whisking leaves off the tarp, but I was burning up inside my sweatshirt, ready to melt. I couldn’t decide which would be worse—pleading ignorance or admitting I might have started to turn. I was still trying to make up my mind, on the verge of what felt like surrender, when it occurred to methat the explanation I needed was already there, just waiting for me, in the statement I’d given at the station.
    “Oh,” I said. “I remember. My foot came off the brake when I reached for Sara.” I handed the pictures back to him. “The car started to roll, and I realized it was still in gear, that I needed to put it in park.”
    “But why did you cut the wheel?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Your front tires—they’re turned toward the curb. Away from your driveway.”
    “I don’t know. I guess I still had a hand on the wheel when I reached for her.” I mimed the action of holding the steering wheel with my left hand, turning it as I reached back with my right. “I must have turned it without meaning to.”
    Instead of the stony disbelief I was expecting, Rizzo said, “Makes sense.”
    I’d managed to regain my composure, but the fact that he once again seemed so willing to take me at my word was starting to worry me. A guilty conscience can be tricky that way: knowing I was lying made it hard to believe anyone else could believe me. I couldn’t help thinking he was just biding his time, lulling me, waiting for me to drop my guard.
    He slid the photos back into the folder and thanked me. I said I was sorry I hadn’t been more help.
    “Anything I can cross off my list, that’s a help.” His car window was open. He tossed the folder onto the seat.“Funny thing about that funeral,” he said. “I’m standing there, checking things out, and I realize I’m looking at the county highway building. On Thomas Boulevard, right across from the cemetery? Our crime scene garage is in there. That’s where we have his car.” He took his keys out, spun them on his finger. “I mean, of all the places he could have been buried, he’s right across the street from his car. No getting away from it, I guess.”
    Driving to pick up Sara that afternoon, I looked for the place Rizzo was talking about. I had to see it for myself. It was half a block down from where I’d flipped off the cop, a long brick building with a fenced parking lot, two metal garage doors, and a sign that read GOD BLESS AMERICA . All of the