I spent two years in prison for my brother. He and his pregnant wife had caused the accident. But my parents begged me to say I was driving. BUT WHEN I GOT OUT ….

Ryan called me “little sis” three times in ten minutes.

Vanessa rested her hand over her stomach pretending innocence.

“I’m glad you remembered family comes first,” she said sweetly.

I smiled politely.

Served dinner.

Let them talk.

Excuses poured from every direction.

Stress.

Pregnancy hormones.

Pressure.

Misunderstandings.

Then during dessert, Ryan raised his wine glass.

“To family,” he announced proudly. “Because blood matters more than anything.”

I slowly set down my spoon.

“Funny you mention blood,” I replied. “Pedro Alvarez’s blood mattered too.”

Silence crashed across the room.

Vanessa turned pale instantly.

I pulled out my phone.

Then pressed play.

First came my mother’s voice:

“Please, Isabella. Say you were driving. Ryan won’t survive prison.”

Then Ryan sobbing and admitting he hit the victim.

Then dashboard camera footage.

Ryan behind the wheel.

Vanessa screaming.

The impact.

The escape.

My father shot to his feet.

“Turn that off.”