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