It wasn’t just data.
It was biological perjury prevention.
“Unless you are suggesting, Detective, that I managed to T-bone a minivan at 60 miles an hour while remaining in a medically induced coma, you are currently holding the wrong suspect,” I added, my tone merciless.
Vance swallowed hard.
He looked up from the screen, his eyes narrowing.
“That proves you weren’t physically driving. It doesn’t explain how your physical driver’s license ended up on the floorboard of the suspect vehicle.”
“No,” I agreed, pulling the phone back toward me. “It
