“I am going home,” I said.
“Mia, sit back down,” George commanded, his voice finally finding its boom, though he still did not look at me. “Your attitude is disgusting. You do not treat your mother this way.”
“I am not treating anyone anyway,” I said, my voice quiet, my eyes fixed on the door that led to the porch. “I am simply leaving.”
“You are being incredibly selfish,” Brianna’s high-pitched voice trailed off as she looked toward the kitchen.
“For once, I am being accurate.”
The morning after that dinner, the kitchen stayed dark until seven. I stood by the counter, waiting for the electric kettle to quiet down, watching the blue light flicker on my phone.
My sister had not texted. My mother had not sent her usual morning picture of her garden.
The silence had a weight to it, like the air before a tropical storm. I measured out two tablespoons of dark roast, my fingers stiff against the plastic scoop.
The phone on the granite countertop buzzed, the vibration rattling against a ceramic mug.
The screen showed an unfamiliar local number with an Ocala exchange.
I slid the bar to answer and held the phone to my ear, keeping my voice level.
“This is Mia.”
“Ms. Lawson, my name is Peter,” a man said, his voice clipped and dry over the line. “I am the finance manager at Westbridge Motors.”
He paused, and in the background, I heard the faint, rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen.
“Yes?” I said.
“Ms. Lawson, we need to verify whether you authorized removal from the guarantor file,” Peter said.
I set the kettle down on the cold stove burner.
“I do not have a file with Westbridge Motors,” I said. “I drive a six-year-old Honda Civic.”
“Our records show otherwise,” Peter said, his pen clicking twice. “We have an active retail installment contract for a silver sixty-thousand-dollar SUV. It was finalized three weeks ago.”
