One evening, a year after the night on Interstate 85, Derek picked up his Lamborghini from the detail shop. The cracked window had long been replaced, the bodywork pristine, the matte-black paint gleaming under the streetlights
He took the car out onto Interstate 85, cruising smoothly at sixty-five miles per hour. The night was clear, the asphalt dry. He passed the exact stretch of shoulder where Officer Mitchell had smashed his flashlight against the glass
His phone chimed over the car's Bluetooth system. It was Agent Rachel Monroe.
"Hey, Derek," Rachel said. "Just checking in. The state legislature just passed the police accountability bill named after our case. Automatic body-cam enforcement is officially law starting next month."
Derek smiled slightly, looking into his rearview mirror at the empty highway behind him. "That’s the real win, Rachel."
"You still driving that noise machine?" she teased softly.
"Every single chance I get," Derek replied. "It reminds me that no matter who is standing outside the window, justice doesn't belong to the person with the loud voice or the heavy flashlight—it belongs to the truth
He pressed lightly on the accelerator, the engine roaring as the supercar glided effortlessly into the Atlanta night, leaving the dark shadows of the past far behind in his wake.