“Ms. Rossi,” he said, leaning forward, his tone dropping to a serious, cautionary level, “I need you to understand what happens next. If I put this out over the radio and we find him, this isn’t a warning situation. This is a felony stop. Grand theft auto is a serious charge. Driving on a suspended license is an arrestable offense. Once this train leaves the station, you can’t just call us and say, ‘Never mind,’ because your mom calls you crying. The district attorney picks it up. Are you prepared for that?”
My stomach twisted. I thought about Sunday dinners. I thought about the baby Lucas was expecting. I thought about the look on my mother’s face when she realized what I’d done. Then I thought about my father’s laugh. You’re single. The dismissal. The absolute erasure of my personhood in favor of my brother’s comfort.
“I want my car back, and I want to file the report. They stole from me,” I said.
“Understood,” Martinez said. He stood up. “Do you have any way to track the vehicle?”
“Yes,” I said, pulling out my phone. My hands were steady now. The decision had been made. “The manufacturer has an app. It has real-time GPS.”
I opened the app. The map loaded, a blue dot pulsating on the screen. I expected to see it at Lucas’s rental house, parked and stationary as my father had claimed. But the dot wasn’t at the house. It was moving.
“He’s not at home,” I said, a fresh wave of anger heating my blood. “He’s on Route 9. He’s doing 70 mph.”
Martinez looked at the screen over my shoulder.
“That’s the highway. Where is he going?”
I zoomed out. The trajectory was clear. He wasn’t going to the pharmacy for the pregnant girlfriend. He wasn’t going to the grocery store. He was heading toward the casino district, forty minutes south.
“He’s joyriding,” I whispered, the realization making me feel sick and vindicated all at once. “My father said he needed it for the baby. He’s going to the casino.”
“Can you track him continuously?” Martinez asked, already reaching for his radio.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Grab your coat, Miss Rossi. We usually don’t do this, but if you can update us on his location in real time, it’s safer than a high-speed pursuit. I’m going to have you follow in your own vehicle.”
“Oh, wait. I don’t have a vehicle,” I reminded him. “He has it. Right.”
Martinez nodded once, already adjusting course.
“Okay, you ride with me. We need to ID the vehicle positively before we initiate a stop.”
The back of a police cruiser is hard plastic and smells faintly of antiseptic and old sweat. I sat in the front passenger seat, a concession Martinez made since I wasn’t a suspect. But the cage separating us from the back was a stark reminder of where my brother was likely heading.
“He’s exiting the highway,” I said, my eyes glued to the phone screen. “Turning onto River Road. There’s a gas station and a liquor store there.”
“I know the spot,” Martinez said.
He didn’t turn on the sirens. We were running silent, a predator stalking prey through the suburban gloom.
“He stopped,” I said. “He’s at the liquor store.”
Of course he was. The irony was so thick I could taste it. My father had preached about the family needs, about the dignity of a man with a child on the way. And that man was currently using my $60,000 SUV to make a beer run before hitting the slots.
“Okay,” Martinez said, pulling the cruiser into the entrance of the strip mall. “Stay in the car, Elina. Do not get out until I tell you.”
