Nancy had to drive the truck the summer she came home from her first year of college.
Nancy did not like this for a number of reasons:
Her brother got to drive the safer, better car, even though he was younger.
The truck had no airbags.
It smelled like cigarette smoke from the previous owner, even though the truck had now been in the family for three years.
The beige seat covers were torn and the original seats underneath them were also torn.
It was a deathtrap.
Another annoying aspect, though less detrimental than the things listed above, was that the bed was filled with black trash bags of empty cans and bottles. Her family didn’t deem it necessary to dispose of the bags by the time she got back. In an act of defiance, she decided she wasn’t going to do anything with them, either.
Less than a week after she was home, two detectives approached Nancy at her summer job. She worked at an independently owned department store. It was embarrassing being escorted by two detectives that wouldn’t tell her what was going on.
What they wanted to search was her truck. Nancy had nothing to hide, so she gave them permission. One of the detectives immediately jumped into the back of the truck while the other asked Nancy some questions.
“How long have you owned this truck?”
“It’s not mine. It’s my parents.”
“How long have they owned it?”
“Three years or so, I think.”
“And how long have you been driving it?”
“Five days now. I got home Friday. I go to Western. You know, in Monmouth. I usually drive the Buick, but my brother is driving it right––”
“Sumpter.”
“What you got?”
“You better come see this.”
The detective went. Nancy felt like she was intruding peeking over the bed of the truck, even though it was her truck (well, her parents’ truck, technically). She could not believe what she saw.
Sumpter looked right at Nancy, frowning. The other detective––she forgot his name––jumped down from the bed and came back around to her.
Nancy was arrested.
Nancy was charged for murder. Three murders, actually.
The black trash bags weren’t filled with bottles and cans. Nancy had no idea.
Apparently, her parents had no idea, either. In fact, they were horrified, mortified, shocked, saddened––etcetera, etcetera––at what their daughter had done. They played the surprised-parents so perfectly.
Despite the reactions and the evidence, Nancy was not responsible for what was found in the back of the truck. She swore she thought they were just cans and bottles left by her parents. She told the detectives, her lawyer, her parents. No one believed her.
No, not even her parents.
They asked her how she could have done such a thing. Nancy didn’t know what to say. Her parents were always so understanding, regardless the situation. It almost seemed like they weren’t willing to understand her side. In fact, it didn’t seem like they were really listening.
Gradually, Nancy began having her own suspicions.
But who could Nancy tell? She didn’t want to believe her own suspicions, but she couldn’t help asking:
Would her parents really frame their daughter for murder? For three murders?
Unfortunately, there was no one for Nancy to confide in. She usually confided in her parents. Her lawyer only looked at her like she was insane, saying that would never work; the jury would never go for something like that.
Nancy was found guilty for all three murders. The three families had closure. Nancy never went back to college. Nancy’s parents never treated her the same since.
Justice was served.
Except for Nancy.
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