He didn’t chase us.
He simply watched.
That frightened me more.
For ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I turned onto a busy highway.
“Start talking.”
Astrid stared through the windshield.
“Not here.”
“You’ve been dead for ten years, Astrid. You don’t get to tell me to wait.”
Her eyes filled.
“I know.”
“Mom died grieving you.”
“I know.”
“Dad stopped celebrating Christmas.”
“I know.”
“And I spent years in therapy because I thought half of me burned inside that car!”
Astrid began crying.
“I know!”
Silence filled the car.
Then she whispered,
“I watched Mom’s funeral online.”
My anger vanished for one stunned second.
“What?”
“Three years ago.”
She wiped her face.
“I couldn’t go.”
“Why?”
“Because they were still watching you.”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Who?”
“I don’t know all of them.”
“Then tell me what you do know.”
