That morning, she flattened herself against the doorway, shrieking harder.
It was shortly after eight on a September Tuesday. Tuesday was my busiest shift at the Scottsville Road salon in Bowling Green. I had a color appointment at nine, a cut at ten-thirty, and a bride’s hair trial at noon.
I’d been doing hair since I was nineteen. My clients trusted me to be there, and I was already considering about whom I would have to call if Nora refused to leave.
That detail still haunts me. I was watching at my daughter’s hands and thinking about my appointment book.
Since January, Ruth had collected her every Tuesday. She drove thirty-five minutes north along US 231 to the farmhouse, returning Nora around six smelling of hay and sunscreen, usually carrying eggs. Nothing like this had happened before.
Kneeling, I tried gently freeing one hand from the frame. She let go only to grab my wrist with a grip I hadn’t known she possessed.
