“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To someone I trust.”
“From the Air Force?”
“No,” she said. “From before.”
I had no idea what before meant.
We drove for nearly two hours, leaving streetlights behind for pine forests and empty roads. Finally, Mom turned onto a gravel path almost hidden between trees. Branches scraped the sides of the car. At the end stood a small cabin with no porch light.
The front door opened before we knocked.
A woman in her sixties stood there holding a shotgun like she knew how to use it.
“Well,” she said, lowering the barrel, “Rachel Miller. You picked a hell of a night to come back.”
Mom exhaled.
“Hello, Aunt June.”
I stared at her.
“You told me Aunt June lived in Arizona.”
“I lied.”
Aunt June looked me over.
“This the boy?”
Mom nodded.
Aunt June’s expression softened for half a second.
