The SUV pulled away.
Evelyn watched the red taillights disappear into airport traffic until they blurred into everything else leaving her behind.
There was no flight.
No boarding pass.
No packed suitcase.
No sister waiting in Cincinnati.
The lie about traveling had been hers, but it was the only one she had left that could buy her two hours outside her son’s control.
For the past year, ever since her husband Richard Parker died of pancreatic cancer, Michael had been handling things. At first, it sounded reasonable. He would “help with paperwork.” He would “streamline the accounts.” He would “make sure no one took advantage of her.” Grief had left Evelyn exhausted and fogged at the edges, and she trusted him because he was her son.
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