Then a car screeches into the parking lot. The driver’s door flies open, and a man jumps out. He’s big, angry, and charging toward them.
“What the fuck—” my mom breathes.
The man grabs the woman and yanks her away from Grant. They’re yelling. I can’t hear the words, but I can see the violence in the man’s movements.
Grant steps between them and tries to calm the situation.
The man shoves him. Hard.
“We should help,” I say. “We should call—”
“Look.” My mom points.
I see them then. In the backseat of the man’s car.
Two girls. One my age. One much younger.
The older girl is staring out the window. Face pale. Terrified.
“There’s his daughter,” my mom says. “Just like he said.”
“Both of them?” I ask. “I have two stepsisters?”
She turns to me. Her face is hard. “They are not your sisters. Understand me? It’s just his daughter. God knows if the four-year-old is his too.”
I don’t respond, swallowing the lump in my throat. I watch as the man drags the woman toward the car. Grant follows, trying to help, still trying to fix it.
The woman gets in the car. Grant races into his car and pounds on the glass, trying to open the door.
The man gets back in the driver’s seat and peels out of the parking lot.
My heart’s racing so fast as I watch his daughter in the backseat. Her head sways with the car’s motion.
My mom starts the car. “Hold on.”
“Mom, what are you—”
“I said hold on.”
She takes off, flying after Grant’s car. She follows them, not keeping her distance.
We drive for ten minutes through residential streets. It’s a quiet neighborhood.
When the car in front of us stops, my mom drives around the block and parks facing the opposite direction.
“He’s a cheating son of a bitch. And it looks like she is too, and her husband isn’t happy about it.”
We sit there, staring at a house I’ve never seen before.
The man gets out first. Then the woman. Then Grant. The man drags the woman into the house, leaving the kids in the car.
The older girl climbs out of the backseat, reaches back in, and pulls out the little one.
I would look at my mom to see if she’s okay, but I’m too concerned with this girl. She’s my age, and oddly enough, I feel a tightness in my chest. She’s pretty.
I watch the girl struggle with the child. I watch as she carries the child toward the front door.
When the door opens, my mom rolls down the window to listen.
