Chapter 1She Laughed While My Porsche Burned — Turns Out It Was Hers

The Porsche downstairs was on fire. My sister-in-law thought it was ours and stood watching with smug satisfaction, gloating that at least her own Porsche was safe. Just then, my husband pulled up in our Porsche.

It's New Year's Eve, and my sister-in-law Nyla bursts through my door, out of breath.

"Nina! Your car — the one downstairs — it's on fire!"

My stomach drops. I grab the fire extinguisher and bolt down the stairs. That's our brand-new Porsche Cayenne. We picked it up three days ago.

But when I hit the sidewalk, I stop cold. That's not our car burning.

That's Nyla's Porsche.

Same model, same color. Hers.

I don't have time to think. I pop the extinguisher and start spraying, but the flames are already licking up the windshield. One canister isn't going to cut it.

I look up. Nyla's leaning over the balcony, arms crossed, watching like it's a rerun of "Real Housewives."

"Nyla! Grab another extinguisher and get down here!" I yell.

She pulls a face. "Ugh, those things are so heavy. I just got my nails done."

"Are you kidding me right now?!"

She shrugs. "Relax. It's your car, not mine."

I freeze for half a second. "My car？"

Right. She thinks it's mine. That's why she's up there filing her nails while a $400K Porsche turns into a bonfire.

I get back to spraying. A couple of neighbors run over with extinguishers of their own — bless them. But by the time we knock the flames back, half the car is toast.

The crowd starts buzzing.

"Damn, that thing doesn't even have plates yet."

"Brand new. What a waste."

"Kid probably chucked a firecracker in there. It's New Year's — you know how they are."

Yeah. Exactly. Cars don't just combust.

I scan the crowd. Two kids are standing off to the side, clutching a fistful of firecrackers, shaking.

I walk over slow. "Hey. Did you two see what happened?"

The one in the beige puffer jacket points a shaky finger. "It — it was him."

The kid in the red jacket — maybe eight years old — snaps his head up. "Shut up! I didn't do anything!"

He tries to bolt. I grab his sleeve.

Then a hand clamps down on my wrist. Hard.

Nyla.

"Nina, what the hell? He's a kid. Back off."

"You know him?"

The boy peeks up at her. "Auntie…"

Oh. Of course. One of Nyla's little cousins from her mom's side.

"I think he stuffed firecrackers into the car," I say. "That's what started it. Since you know him — call his mom."

The kid hears "mom" and starts wailing.

Nyla puts on her best fake-concerned face. "Nina. Do you have any proof? You're a grown woman bullying a child."

The crowd shifts. I can feel it.

"Yeah, accusing a kid with no proof? Not cool."

"Poor thing is gonna be traumatized."

"She lost her car, now she's losing her mind."

I pull out my phone.

The dashcam feed is synced to the cloud. And I happen to have access to Nyla's too — because Ryan and I bought the same Porsche the same day, and I gifted her the dashcam.

I tap in. Boom. Playback.

A kid in a red puffer jacket, lighting firecracker after firecracker, shoving them through the front grille. Ten times, at least. Then he turns and grins right at the camera.

Same kid. Red jacket. Case closed.

Nyla's face goes blank for one second. Then she plasters a smile back on.

"Oh, come on. He's just a kid being a kid. Let it go, Nina."

I stare at her. "Let it go? This is a brand-new Porsche!"

Four hundred thousand dollars. Three days old.

Cody and Nyla run a small packaging factory. They grind. Every dollar in that car was earned at 5 a.m. And now she's telling me to "let it go"?

Then it clicks. What she said upstairs. The nails. The shrug.

I say it slow. "Nyla. This is your new car. Your car, Nyla. You still want to let it go? You don't want the kid's family to pay you back?"

She reaches up and presses her palm against my forehead like I'm five.

"Ohhh sweetie. You're burning up. You're delirious. Talking crazy."

Today was supposed to be the whole family's New Year's church service. I stayed home with a fever. Nyla stayed home because she's two months pregnant.

I slap her hand away. "I'm dead serious."

But she just gives me that pity smile. "Cody told me this morning. They drove our car to church. Ours."

I try Cody's cell. Straight to voicemail. He's probably in service, phone in the car.

Fine. I record a video of the wreck and text it to Ryan and Cody both.

"Get home. Now."