“Because some stories don’t end when people think they do.”
That answer made no sense.
Before I could ask what she meant, she stopped.
Across the parking lot, a black SUV sat near the curb. Its windows were tinted so dark they reflected the gray sky. A man in a charcoal suit leaned against the driver’s door, arms folded. He was tall and thin, with gray at his temples and one side of his face partly hidden by shadow.
Mom saw him.
Everything about her changed.
Her shoulders lowered. Her face went still. Her right hand shifted slightly, not toward a weapon, but toward where one would have been if she were carrying one.
“Get in the car, Lucas.”
“Who is that?”
“Now.”
I got in.
She did not start the engine. She watched the man. He watched her.
Then the man lifted one hand and touched two fingers to his temple in a small salute.
Mom whispered one word.
“No.”
The man returned to the SUV and drove away.
For the first time in my life, my mother looked shaken.
That night, she locked every door twice.
