The officer looked at me, and his voice was very careful.
“Ma’am, this vehicle has been connected to a missing person case we’ve kept open for six years.”
I stared at him.
“My vehicle?”
He nodded.
“Six years ago, a woman named Rachel Moore disappeared.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of her.”
The officer glanced toward Linda’s garage.
“That’s what we need to determine.”
My eyes returned to the scratches beneath the red paint.
“What do those letters say?”
The officer hesitated.
Then he read them aloud.
RACHEL M. — 10/14/20 — HELP
My entire body went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I bought this SUV three years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then how could something from six years ago be underneath the paint?”
The officer didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he walked around my SUV and examined the rear quarter panel.
“There was another vehicle registered to this VIN before you bought it.”
I shook my head.
“No. The dealership told me it had one previous owner.”
“They may have been technically correct.”
“What does that mean?”
He looked directly at me.
“It means the vehicle may have been transferred between owners without the full history being reported.”
Behind us, Linda suddenly screamed.
“You have no right to search my house!”
Everyone turned.
An officer standing near her garage door raised his voice.
“Linda, step away from the garage.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
The older officer looked at me again.
“Ma’am, when was the last time you saw your vehicle yesterday?”
“About eleven at night.”
“And where was it?”
“Right here.”
“Was it locked?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else have access to your keys?”
“No.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then we have another problem.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the garage.
“We found something inside that may explain why your neighbor knew exactly where to throw that paint.”
My heart began pounding.
“What did you find?”
Before he could answer, the younger officer emerged carrying a plastic evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
A photograph of a woman.
She was standing beside a white SUV.
My SUV.
I stepped closer.
“No…”
The woman in the photograph was smiling.
On the back of the photograph was a handwritten date.
October 14, 2020.
The same date scratched into my vehicle.
I looked at the officer.
“Who is she?”
“Rachel Moore.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Rachel had apparently owned my SUV before I did.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The officer turned the photograph over.
There was another message written beneath the date.
IF YOU FIND THIS, DON’T TRUST LINDA.
I looked toward my neighbor.
Linda had stopped screaming.
She was staring at the photograph.
And for the first time since the police arrived, the color completely disappeared from her face.
“You’re lying,” she whispered.
The officer stepped toward her.
“Linda, when was the last time you saw Rachel Moore?”
Linda didn’t answer.
“Linda?”
Still nothing.
Then she suddenly turned and ran.
Two officers caught her before she reached the sidewalk.
“Let me go!”
“Why are you running?”
“I didn’t kill her!”
The entire street went silent.
Linda froze.
So did I.
The officer slowly lowered his hands.
“We didn’t say she was dead.”
Linda’s eyes widened.
And that’s when I realized—
The police hadn’t come to investigate my vandalized SUV.
They had come because someone had finally found evidence that Rachel Moore might still be alive.
The older officer pulled me aside.
“There is something you need to understand.”
“What?”
“The scratches on your vehicle weren’t made recently.”
I stared at him.
“They were made from inside.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the rear panel.
“Someone scratched those letters into the metal from beneath the original coating. Then the vehicle was repainted.”
I felt sick.
“Why would someone do that?”
“To hide the message.”
I looked at Linda.
She was sitting on the curb now, surrounded by officers.
“Then why did she throw red paint on my car?”
The officer’s expression changed.
“We believe she wasn’t trying to damage it.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“She was trying to remove something.”
My stomach dropped.
“The red paint?”
“No.”
He pointed at the exposed section where the red paint had dissolved the old white coating.
“She knew exactly what was underneath.”
Suddenly, everything clicked.
The bucket.
The late-night visit.
The location she chose.
She hadn’t randomly vandalized my car.
She had deliberately poured that specific type of paint remover mixture over the rear panel.
She wanted the old coating gone.
But she had made one mistake.
She had exposed the message before she could destroy it.
The officer reached into his