The second I heard those numbers, cold sweat slid down my spine.
0817. Grandpa's birthday.
And yes, the plate number on the little car I'd bought him. There was no denying that.
But how? How was that possible?
I knew, deep in my bones, that my grandfather would never have hit someone with a car. Yet Michael had said it with such conviction that even I felt a flicker of doubt creep in.
The color must have drained from my face, because Officer Elliot Chavez's expression turned even more severe. His voice came down like a gavel.
"We reviewed the surveillance footage and identified the plate number of the vehicle involved."
"That plate is registered to your grandfather's car. It's been confirmed. What else could you possibly have to say?"
Michael's kick had landed with every ounce of force he had. My lower abdomen throbbed in waves of pain, and I couldn't stop a sharp hiss from escaping through my teeth.
Hearing those words on top of it sent an icy chill flooding through my entire body.
That plate number. I'd picked it up just days ago. I'd chosen it on sight because it matched Grandpa's birthday.
So how could it have ended up on a different car?