The end of Meredith?

The end of Meredith?
Diana

We were in the living room, me, Mom, and Ethan, wrapped in a blanket like it was just another Sunday. The TV was showing a silly movie—one of those romantic comedies I never admit I like—and we just commented on the funny parts while eating popcorn. My mom made that lovely little noise of someone who's happy, and Ethan sat next to me, his arm on the back of the chair, sometimes reaching for my hand to squeeze. It was a rare moment of normalcy, and I tried to savor every second.

Then, out of nowhere, the TV cut. That quick pause that makes you suspect it's bad news. A serious-looking man appeared in the corner of the screen, and the anchor's voice: "We interrupt the programming for breaking news." My fingers got caught in the popcorn bag. My heart skipped a beat. Mom looked up, and Ethan did too. The feeling that something was about to happen tightened in my chest.

The broadcast immediately showed the scene: a car on a busy avenue, surrounded by police cars. The camera was shaking because it was live, and the siren outside seemed to be coming right into my living room. The anchor, with that chilling tone, explained that the police were chasing a suspicious vehicle. At first, no one said who it was. They only showed images: drivers swerving, horns honking, people running, traffic jams.

“Could it be a robbery?” my mother whispered, her voice high-pitched.

“I don’t know…” I replied. And Ethan remained silent, his eyes glued to the TV.

Whenever the TV cuts like that, the whole city seems to stop. The images flashed back and forth: the car fleeing, the police blocking routes, a helicopter appearing in the sky as if it were a scene from a police movie. I started sweating, without quite understanding why. What really got to me was when the anchor said the name.

“We have just received confirmation: the person inside the vehicle is Meredite Almeida.”

My head opened. The word “Meredite” felt like a punch. I stopped breathing for two seconds. Mom let out a strange sound, a mixture of shock and horror. Ethan closed his eyes for a moment and then held his breath tightly, as if he were holding the world in his chest.

I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or applaud the police. An entire hour of chase played on TV, and the whole room turned into a police station. The broadcast cut to the streets, to drivers, to quick interviews with people who witnessed the scene. Real characters in the middle of that chaos: a man who had closed the door of the corner store and watched everything with wide eyes; a young woman who was crying; a mental band-aid that I felt hitting my chest thinking about everything Meredite had caused.

The chase wasn't just a trail—it was an absurd sequence of destruction. She went through alleys, avenues, ran red lights, knocked down signs, hit a lamppost, and kept going. Each impact I saw on the screen felt like someone was pulling my stomach down. I saw a motorcycle narrowly swerve, a baby stroller stop in the middle of the stage because the mother tried to run across, people throwing their hands to their heads. I couldn't look at the mother; I wanted to protect her from watching it. But she didn't take her eyes off it.

The helicopter didn't leave the air. The aerial camera showed the trail: Meredite speeding around a corner, going through a roundabout and then entering a road that ran alongside the river. The journalists tried to explain: "She's desperate; it seems she doesn't want to be arrested." The feeling was like a movie becoming reality and nobody knows the script.

The city police joined forces, blocked bridges, closed exits. I saw the car flee along the shoulder at one point and then crash into a wall. I thought: it's over. But no. She managed to get out of the car, ran into a smaller car that was waiting for her on a side street. This woman has always had a terrifying talent for not getting caught. I felt like screaming. With each maneuver, I imagined her face—that cold smile I'd seen once—and an enormous rage burned inside me.

The chase lasted for hours. An hour and twenty? More? Time seemed to slip away. The TV broadcast followed everything in real time. The police closed highways, blocked overpasses, uniformed officers threw themselves in front of cars. Traffic became a labyrinth of abandoned vehicles. Through the broadcast window, I saw a moving truck overturned in a roundabout; a traffic sign lying across a median. This wasn't just a chase; it was an entire city being shaken.

I remember the moment the anchor started breathing differently. The camera followed the road to the bridge—and Meredith was coming at high speed, her car screeching its tires. The police surrounded her from behind, tried to block her path, but she seemed determined. That's when I felt the end was coming. My hands began to tremble. My mother shrank further on the sofa, her face pale. Ethan was motionless, his hands clenched. He looked like he was going to jump out of his chair.

The images showed the officers speaking on the radio, trying to coordinate an operation to stop it without risking public safety. “We have to avoid a direct confrontation on the bridge,” the commentator repeated, and I thought about how many lives could be at risk if it exploded. The bridge, at that moment, seemed like the end of the world. The shimmering water below didn't help; it made everything more dramatic.

And then it happened. The car entered the bridge at a speed no one should have when there's so much police presence. Suddenly, a sharp maneuver, smoke out in front, and the car loses control. The sound on the TV seemed to fade away. I didn't see the impact as I imagine other people did: I saw the sensation. I felt the blow to my chest, as if my breath had been ripped away. I saw the car hit the curb, spin, and then… it was as if time had slowed down until it ended in a single second.

The car went over the bridge railing. I saw the wheels leave the asphalt and then the fall. The image of the vehicle falling was frozen on the screen as something that shouldn't exist. Screams in the news report, the helicopter as an inert witness. The car plunged and disappeared into the water. Blur, foam, and then silence. The anchor was silent for a full second—and I saw my body react before my head. I jumped up from the sofa without thinking. Mom started to cry, a tear that came before a sob. Ethan gripped my arm so tightly I could feel his knuckles.

The minutes that followed were the longest of my life. The police sent boats, divers, rescue teams. The broadcast showed aquatic operations, men jumping into the water, boats circling, families watching from the riverbank. I wanted to leave the room, I wanted to run to the bridge, I wanted to talk to the officers, I wanted to yell at Meredith, I wanted everything. But the feeling was of having seen the end of something and, at the same time, not believing that the end could bring peace.

Inside, I felt a strange mix: relief, fear, a pang of guilt—then it came quickly and I pushed it out—and so, so much exhaustion. Relief because, perhaps, the chase was over; fear because this could turn into another story; guilt because some part of me wished she would pay for what she did. I wasn't a heroine or a saint; I was human. Mom pulled me close and hugged me, trembling, and I whispered in her ear that everything was alright, trying to convince myself.

The helicopter returned with the information that the car sank quickly and that the teams were fighting against the current. The police were optimistic, they said, but cautious. They needed to confirm her identity. They needed to find a body, cargo, any sign. The official narrative still couldn't say she was dead. And I understood that this was the point: until there was proof, it was only a possibility. And possibility is a path to despair.

We spent the night glued to the TV. I couldn't sleep properly. The uncertainty was cold: she could have died, or she could have escaped the water. She could be injured in a hospital without documents, or, with the malice she possessed, she could have already prepared another route. The police surrounded the area, but the same police force that made the arrest would take a while to give a calm response.

The next morning, the news came cautiously: they found the submerged vehicle; there were clues, but the identification was preliminary. The prosecutor appeared on the news asking for calm and informing that the investigation would continue. I felt a weight lift from my body and something else enter: the feeling that, even though she was down, the story wasn't over. Justice takes time, evidence takes time, and the pain of waiting was still mine.

I lay down on the sofa when we finally turned off the TV. Mom fell asleep with her head in my lap, exhausted. Ethan pulled me close and remained silent. The whole house smelled of forgotten coffee and fear. I felt that, for a brief moment, we breathed. But I know I won't truly relax until all this is proven and closed. Life doesn't go back exactly to what it was. The bridge collapsed in my mind, and something there broke. But seeing the car disappear into the water was a chapter that, in a way, had closure—and that left me even more confused than before.

The only certainty was that nothing would ever be the same again. And that, for the first time since Santorini, I felt a glimmer of cynical hope: that perhaps justice had at least taken a step in the right direction.