The front door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the old chandelier in the hallway, but the heavy, cloying scent of Quintessa’s perfume lingered long after she’d gone. That fragrance had always seemed too intrusive to me, too loud for our brownstone with its high ceilings and the kind of silence that comes from years of careful living. I stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the closed pantry door.
My stomach twisted into a tight knot, and it shamed me to admit it, but I was hungry—just ordinary human hunger that grows persistent as evening approaches. Three hours earlier, my daughter had stood in this same kitchen, already dressed for travel in a sundress too bright for September, her suitcase wheels scraping impatiently against the hardwood floor. “Mama, give me your card,” she’d said, holding out her hand like it was the most natural request in the world.
“Just in case. What if the ATM down in Miami doesn’t work or something?”
My fingers had hesitated over my wallet. “But Quintessa, that’s my whole Social Security check.
What am I supposed to live on for two weeks?”
