Every movement felt slowed, each sound amplified—the rustling of trees in the breeze, the creak of her trunk’s latch, the slight buzz of a streetlamp overhead. Jenny licked her dry lips, the bitter taste of stale coffee making her stomach turn.
She opened the trunk slowly.
The lid creaked upward. The moment had arrived.
Inside the trunk, under the harsh glow of the streetlamp, lay Jenny’s teaching supplies. Replicas of historical artifacts: worn-looking scrolls, faux-ancient coins, and a mock-up of an old flintlock pistol nestled among lesson plans and laminated activity cards.
The officer leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “What do we have here?” he murmured, more to himself than to Jenny. His tone had changed—less official, more calculating. As he picked up the replica pistol, its metallic barrel caught the light. His expression shifted again—now a mix of suspicion and alarm.
“Is that a real weapon?” he snapped.
The pistol replica gleamed under the light, its intricate details casting deep shadows in the trunk’s narrow space. Jenny’s heart seized as the officer stared down at it, not as an educator might admire a teaching tool—but as someone convinced he had found evidence of a crime.
“They’re just teaching aids,” Jenny explained quickly. “For my history class. They’re replicas.”
But he wasn’t listening. He turned the pistol over in his hand, inspecting it with growing skepticism. Her signed museum release forms, visibly clipped to a folder nearby, were ignored as he continued rifling through her materials.
“This stuff looks expensive,” he muttered. “Where’d someone like you get all this?”
Jenny felt her stomach knot. His voice dripped with accusation, the implication clear: she didn’t look like someone who could own “valuable” historical artifacts. His suspicion wasn’t based on evidence—it was built on assumption.
She could barely breathe. This was going beyond aggression—he was drawing his own conclusions, deciding who she was and what she’d done without a shred of truth.
Before she could explain again, his tone sharpened, and his words hit like a slap. “You stole these, didn’t you? These look real enough to be worth something. Are you part of a smuggling operation?”
Jenny reeled.
Smuggling?
She blinked in disbelief. “What are you even talking about?” she wanted to cry out, but fear held her back. He was accusing her of something outlandish, and yet he said it with such certainty, as if he’d already written the ending to her story.