Almost.
Then she buckled her seat belt and looked out the window.
I pulled away from the curb.
Rain drummed on the roof. The radio played softly. The wipers swept back and forth.
Karen said nothing.
After several blocks, she whispered, “Could you turn the music down?”
“Sure.”
The car became almost painfully quiet.
I glanced at her.
“You okay?”
She kept looking through the passenger window.
“I will be.”
I tightened my hands around the steering wheel.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Her head turned.
For several seconds, she studied me.
“You’ve always been strangely observant.”
“I’ve known your son for ten years. Somebody has to notice the things he misses.”
That earned a weak laugh.
Then her eyes filled with something she quickly turned away to hide.
My stomach tightened.
“Karen.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrible at lying.”
“Alex.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
