“They have actual work to do, Maureen,” Kevin said, his voice smooth and steady. “Sarah is throwing a tantrum because we asked her to grow up.”
“She did not take her savings passbook,” I said.
I pointed to the small blue bank ledger sitting near the salt shaker. It was the book my father had given her when she turned twelve, the cover worn at the corners.
Kevin did not look at the ledger. He sorted a gas bill to the right side of his knee.
“She is nineteen,” Kevin said. “She has to learn that her actions have consequences. If we go chasing her now, we are just rewarding the behavior.”
“I am going to drive around the college campus,” I said, reaching for my car keys.
Kevin did not move. He reached for the next envelope, his letter opener slicing through the paper with a clean, sharp hiss.
“You are wasting gas,” he said. “She is probably sitting in a diner with her friends, waiting for you to call her five times.”
“What if she is not?” I asked.
