“I’ll take a—” I almost finish the sentence with glass of red wine. I could, no doubt, get away with it. The odds of running into one of the few people who know about the parameters of my intervention program are minuscule. But then I hear the screeching tires and crunching metal as I hit that tree. I see the red-and-blue lights of the officer pulling up behind me. Guilt, like fire, burns me from the inside out. “I’ll just take a water.”
Did she do it?
