The woman who stepped out of the sedan wore a blue wool coat, polished black shoes, and a gray scarf tucked neatly beneath her chin. She was old enough for her white hair to make people underestimate her, but she walked with the straight-backed confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime watching liars forget which lie they told first.
My father whispered, “Oh, no.”
That was when Brent’s expression changed.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Fear.
“Who is that?” my mother snapped, though the panic in her voice said she already knew.
The doorbell rang.
No one moved.
The woman waited exactly five seconds, then rang again.
Finally my father opened the door.
“Good morning, David,” she said.
Her voice carried into the hallway, crisp and calm.
“Evelyn,” my father said, his face ashen.
My mother stepped forward. “You have no business coming here.”
Evelyn Price looked at her with the pity one reserves for a woman standing inside a house she no longer understands.
