We'd only bought the Mercedes three months ago, and Morton had immediately wanted to use it to practice. I refused on the spot, telling him he didn't even have a license. He'd gone and enrolled at a driving school after that, and just two days ago, I'd driven past the school and spotted him still practicing for his road test.
I'd said everything I needed to say. Whether Lambert listened was no longer my problem.
I arrived at the family hometown before they did.
The second I walked through the door, my in-laws descended on me, faces tight with displeasure, voices already raised.
"What is wrong with you, Astrid? It was just giving Bernice a ride. What's the big deal?"
"You took off by yourself—how do you think that makes Bernice feel?"
"When she gets here, you'd better fix that attitude and apologize. You're family. Don't go burning bridges."
I held my temper and tried to explain.
They didn't hear a word of it. Just kept hammering me about being petty and small-minded.
But before they got their apology, Bernice called.
Sobbing.
"Astrid... something happened..."
"Morton was driving your car... he killed someone!" She was wailing now. "There's blood... so much blood..."
My heart dropped like a stone. My whole body locked up where I stood.
I rushed to the hospital with my in-laws.
We hadn't even made it through the entrance when the screaming hit us—raw, guttural, the kind of grief that tears a person apart from the inside.
"My husband... oh God, my husband, how could they do this to you? How am I supposed to live without you?"
"Dad! Dad, please! Your son's getting married next month—open your eyes, please, just look at me!"
"You murderers! You killed my father! You killed him!"
Inside, Bernice sat with her arm in a cast, her face drained of all color.
Lambert's head was wrapped in gauze, a cervical brace clamped around his neck, blood soaking through his clothes.
Morton had a broken femur and fractured ribs.
But Daisy had it the worst. She hadn't been wearing a seatbelt and was thrown from the car on impact. She was still in emergency surgery.
Lambert spotted me and stumbled over, grabbing my hands. His eyes were wild with desperation.
"Babe, what do we do? The victim's family is demanding a million dollars. Where are we supposed to get that kind of money?"
"The car is yours. You'll bear primary liability."