Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
It simply cracked.
For one second, I saw a woman who was desperately tired of holding herself together.
Then she pointed through the windshield.
“Turn here.”
I frowned.
“Your house is the other direction.”
“I know.”
“Where are we going?”
“Please.”
One word.
That was enough.
I turned.
The road climbed toward the northern edge of the city, where office buildings gave way to trees and long stretches of darkness. I recognized the route.
Years earlier, Daniel and I used to sneak up there after midnight whenever we wanted to complain about school, girlfriends, parents, or the general unfairness of being seventeen.
The overlook appeared ahead.
I parked.
Far below us, the city glowed through the rain.
Karen stared through the windshield.
For almost a full minute, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “My husband left me today.”
I turned toward her.
“What?”
“He didn’t leave the house.”
