She narrowed her gaze, studying me like she did when something felt off. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
She let out a short laugh. “That’s never true.”
We ate in near silence.
Sharon talked constantly, but not to me—around me. About ungrateful young women who spent too much time online, about how marriage required obedience, about how lucky I was to have a place to stay while Luke worked. Every so often, she glanced at the front window, but I couldn’t tell if she was concerned or just reinforcing control for herself.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. I began to think I had made a mistake.
Maybe Evan hadn’t seen the note clearly. Maybe he thought it was a private family issue and didn’t want to get involved. Maybe he believed Sharon’s version of me—a fragile, overreacting wife—more than a stranger’s silent plea.
Then headlights swept across the curtains. Not one set. Two.
Sharon stood so fast her chair scraped backward across the tile. She moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside just enough to look out. “What the hell?” she whispered.
There was a knock. Firm. Official.
