Open with an alibi for a question that hasn't been put to you yet. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

The wasp in my Corolla yesterday. It hit the windshield at forty miles an hour. Not a sound. Just this sudden, violent thwack right in the center. The windshield didn’t even crack. I sat there, gripping the wheel, waiting for it to die or fly away. It just lay there. Dead. Completely inert against the glass.

I didn’t wash it off. I drove the rest of the ten minutes to the warehouse with it pressed against the front. That’s why I’m late. You’re looking at me like I’m lying about the traffic, but it’s the insect. It’s still there. I can see the fuzz on its legs through the wiper streaks. Did you check the dashcam? It recorded the impact.

The Henderson account. Right. Because that’s what matters. You say it like it’s obvious, like I’m the crazy one for noticing details. I wasn’t obsessing over the bug, Hana. I was worried about the glass. A wasp that heavy, at that speed... it leaves a residue. Chemicals. Fluids. If you’re trying to wipe the windshield clean right now, you’re doing a bad job. You’re smearing it.

And why were you so busy? You were supposed to meet me at four. You didn’t call. You didn’t text. You just showed up late, smelling like someone else’s office. Cheap perfume. Not yours. You’re wiping the dash now. Stop it. It’s just a smear. Let it be. Why are you so eager to get it off?

Chlorhexidine. Right. But you’re not scrubbing the glass, Hana. You’re looking at me. Your hands are shaking. You said the Henderson account was a nightmare, but you were on the phone with logistics? That’s your partner’s department. You never take calls from logistics unless you’re copying him.

And your head is pounding? You sound fine. Sharp. Too sharp for someone who’s been breathing down your neck all day. You’re avoiding the dashcam. You said you didn’t check it, but you didn’t say you deleted it. Did you? You’re moving the car. Why? The engine’s cold. There’s no reason to move it except to change the angle. To hide the scratch on the passenger side door. The one that wasn’t there yesterday. Why are you holding your breath?

"You didn't say anything," I say. My voice is low. "But you did."

The sun was glaring. I saw the reflection in your eyes. But you didn't blink. You stared right into it. That’s not how glare works. Unless you’re checking the rearview mirror. Checking to see if anyone is watching you.

"Solid alibi." You slipped. Just a twitch of the tongue. You don’t trust your own words anymore. That’s new.

I reach for the door handle. It’s locked. Of course it is. You’ve been locking things since Tuesday. Since the Henderson account started. Or since you bought the chlorhexidine. Since you started smelling like a hospital but acting like a criminal.

You want me out? Fine. But I’m taking the dashcam. You can’t hide the bug if I take the drive. You can’t hide the scratch if I take the drive. You’re shaking harder now. Why? Did you think I wouldn’t notice the lock? Or did you think I wouldn’t notice you’ve been waiting for me to say that?

Corrupted. Right. Because that’s what happens when you wipe a drive. You don’t get garbage; you get zeros. And you, with your shaking hands, would notice. You’d know the difference between a glitch and a purge.

I didn’t shake. You did. Look at your fingers. White knuckles on the wheel. You say “I didn’t kill it” like it’s a joke. A cruel, pathetic joke. About the wasp. Or about me.

You need air. Fine. Open the door. But don’t think I’m leaving. I’m sitting right here. I’m watching the reflection in your eyes. You’re not looking at the road. You’re looking at the gap between us. Waiting for me to reach across. To touch you. To forgive you.

You didn’t kill the wasp, Hana. You killed the evidence. And now you’re waiting for me to prove I can’t. Go on. Unlock it. Let’s see if you have the nerve.

You’re sweating. Actual beads on your upper lip. And you’re talking about the door. The passenger door. The one next to the bug.

"It hit the glass," you say. Like it just... happened. Like gravity. But wasps don’t hit windshields at forty miles per hour unless you’re doing forty. You were stopped. At the light on 4th. I saw the brake lights reflect in your eyes. You were stopped. And the wasp hit you.

You didn’t aim, but you didn’t brake. You kept going. You ran it over. On purpose. Or by neglect. Same difference.

And the scratch. From the door. When you slammed it shut? In a hurry? To get out? To get in?

I’m not unlocking it. I’m calling the tow truck. They’ll cut the glass. They’ll see the body. They’ll see the smear. And you’ll be sitting there in the shop, explaining why you stopped at 4th when the light was green. Why you were thinking about the Henderson account so hard you didn’t see a bug.

Breathe, Hana. In. Out. You’re hyperventilating. It’s making you slurr. "Insane." Cute.

You’re angry at me? For being loud? I haven’t said a word for twenty minutes.

And you didn’t swerve. You kept driving. You let it hit.

I’m smiling because you finally said it. Not the bug. The rent. The eviction notice. You didn’t mention that yesterday. Or last week. You’ve been hiding that? From me? That’s the leverage, isn’t it? That’s why you’re so desperate to keep the Henderson account quiet. You’re not just hiding a scratch. You’re hiding your own survival.

You think I’m smiling at you? I’m smiling at the trap you just walked into. You admitted you were angry at me. That’s a motive. A real one. Not a phantom scratch. Not a corrupted drive. You wanted me gone. Or you wanted me to pay for the rent.

Pick one. And don’t tell me you’re confused. You’re the one who locked the doors.