During the entire drive home, images filled my mind—yellow paint melting under flames, the call I would have to make to my father, Derek standing smugly in the driveway.
When I turned onto our street, I saw the smoke first.
Thick gray clouds rising above the houses.
Then flashing emergency lights.
A fire truck blocked part of the road. Neighbors stood outside filming with their phones while heat shimmered above the pavement.
In my driveway, a yellow sports car was engulfed in flames.
Derek stood on the lawn, arms crossed, watching me as if he had just won.
I stumbled from my car, breath ragged.
Then I saw the license plate.
It wasn’t mine.
It belonged to Derek.
Before I could stop it, laughter burst out of me—loud, uncontrollable—just as a firefighter looked up and asked,
“Ma’am… whose car is this?”
The question hung awkwardly in the smoky air.
Derek’s confident smile faltered when I kept laughing. It wasn’t joy—it was disbelief. A grown man had set a car on fire simply to punish his wife.
“That’s my husband’s vehicle,” I said finally, forcing my voice to steady. “Registered to Derek Caldwell.”
A police officer stepped closer. “Ma’am, are you saying you didn’t do this?”