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“Alright.Just take it slow.”

“Thank you.Really.”

She rounds the front of the car, climbing back in with a tight smile that doesn’t match the sheen in her eyes.

As she starts the engine, I say, “That was impressive.”

“I’m a single mom,” she says flatly.“We get good at improvising.”

We merge back onto the highway.The silence crawls back between us, smug and satisfied.

After a mile or two, I ask, “Why’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Cover for me.You could’ve had your whole home invasion fantasy thing for real.”

She stares at the road.“And what?Let them open the trunk?”

I turn to look at her.She’s dead calm.

“What’s in the trunk?”

She exhales through her nose.Not quite a laugh.Not quite a sigh.

“My ex,” she says.

A beat passes.

“Well.What’s left of him.”

53

Vance

We don’t talk for a long time.

Not because we’ve run out of things to say, but because the weight of what she just admitted fills the car like gas.You could light a match with the wrong question.

Eventually, she takes the next exit.Rural stretch.One gas station, one church, one diner too clean to be honest.She pulls onto a back road behind the gas station, gravel popping under the tires.

Then she kills the engine.

Leaves the headlight on.

Doesn’t move.

I wait a beat before I say, “You want to tell me that again?”

She grips the wheel like it’s going to fight back.Then leans her forehead against it.

“He was hurting my kid,” she says.

The words come quiet.Like they’re more dangerous now that they’re out in the open.

“I didn’t know at first.You think you know someone—think you’re safe, finally—and then your daughter starts flinching every time she hears the garage door open.”

I say nothing.