Fugitive Mom. Lynn Erickson
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and when he handed her the keys their fingers brushed again. She could smell him—beery breath cut with a smoky overlay, as if he’d been sitting around a campfire. “Later,” he said.
“Okay. Um, thank you for doing this.”
He waved a hand, dismissing her, watched as she turned on the ignition and merged into the heavy traffic. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head, pale-blue icy eyes, until she reached the corner and made a left turn.
Then, taking her totally by surprise, a sob welled up from her chest, shaking her so badly she had to pull over into a gas station and stop. For the first time, she let the tears come, the moan building in her, until her face was wet and her throat hurt and her heart was empty.
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