The air outside was bitter, carrying the scent of rotting leaves and wet asphalt. The streetlights on Elm Street cast long, yellow shadows across the gravel driveway where our cars were parked.
I carried the glass casserole dish in one hand, the glass now cold and sweating against my palm. Emma walked beside me, her head tucked down into the collar of her coat, her quiet whispers muffled by the wind.
“Mom, did we do something wrong?” Emma whispered, her voice cracking as we reached the passenger door.
“No, sweetie,” I said, opening the door and helping her slide onto the cold fabric of the seat. “You did absolutely nothing wrong. You are perfect.”
Noah scrambled into the back seat behind her, pulling his knees up to his chest.
I set the cold casserole on the floorboard of the front seat. The white Tyvek envelope from Daniel Cho was still tucked safely inside my tote bag, a heavy square of paper that they had no idea existed.
I got into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The heater groaned, blowing cold air into the cabin before the engine could warm.
“Are we going home, Mom?” Noah asked from the back.
“We are going home,” I said, looking at the rearview mirror. “And we are going to make midnight pancakes. With real syrup and paper crowns.”
“Can we stay up until midnight?” Emma asked, her voice still shaky but lifting slightly.
“Yes,” I said. “As late as you want.”
I shifted the car into reverse and looked up at the house. The large bay window of the living room was brightly lit, showing the silhouette of my mother still standing by the tree, her hand resting on her pearls. Brent’s truck sat in the driveway beside us, its chrome wheels catching the dull yellow of the streetlamp.
They would find out what was in the white envelope soon enough.
I backed out of the driveway, the tires crunching over the gravel, and did not look back again as the house slid into the dark.
The kitchen smelled of warm butter and vanilla, a deliberate shield against the cold drive home from Elm Street.
