She’d tied her blonde hair into a messy bun.
She looked deeply offended.
“Where are the eggs?” she said.
I lifted my coffee.
“There aren’t any,” I said.
She blinked.
“What?”
“No breakfast here this morning,” I said.
My mother appeared behind her.
In her pale pink cardigan. Her hair flat on one side from the pillow. Holding her phone.
“Sweetheart,” she said. “What does that mean? No breakfast?”
Before I could answer, headlights swept across the living room windows.
Big ones. White. Bright.
Gravel crunched in the driveway.
A white twelve-passenger luxury shuttle pulled up in front of the house. A Mercedes Sprinter. COASTAL CONCIERGE painted in navy blue letters on the side.
A dark SUV pulled in behind it. A black Ford Explorer. With a small gold star on the door.
Ezoic
Melissa marched to the window.
She pressed her face to the glass.
“Who is that?”
