Mom saw him.
Everything about her changed.
Her shoulders lowered. Her face went still. Her right hand shifted slightly, not toward a weapon, but toward where one would have been if she were carrying one.
“Get in the car, Lucas.”
“Who is that?”
“Now.”
I got in.
She did not start the engine. She watched the man. He watched her.
Then the man lifted one hand and touched two fingers to his temple in a small salute.
Mom whispered one word.
“No.”
The man returned to the SUV and drove away.
For the first time in my life, my mother looked shaken.
That night, she locked every door twice.
She pulled the curtains shut. She checked the windows. She took an old metal box from the back of her closet and placed it on the kitchen table.
I had seen that box only once before, years earlier, when I was seven and looking for Christmas wrapping paper. Mom had taken it from me gently but firmly and said, “Not this, Lucas.”
