Headlights flooded the kitchen window in white bands, washing over the refrigerator, the American flag magnet, Linda’s pale face, and the coffee spreading across the counter.
Silas turned his head toward the sound.
The muzzle shifted just enough for me to see his jaw clench.
Through the rain-streaked glass, black armored SUVs rolled into the driveway with the disciplined speed of people who did not come to argue.
Doors opened.
Boots hit pavement.
A neighbor’s porch light came on across the street.
Mrs. Harris stepped outside in a cardigan, one hand at her throat.
The whole cul-de-sac, that manicured little theater of ordinary peace, began to wake up.
Linda backed into the pantry door.
Her phone slipped from her hand and cracked against the tile beside the scattered spoons.
For once, she did not bend to pick it up.
She stared at me as if all the years she had made small had suddenly stood to their full height.
“Maya,” she said.
It was not an apology.
Not yet.
