Myra
The heater in my aging sedan was as stubborn as Tony Kent, which meant I was still shivering as I pulled away from the nursing home’s entrance. Beside me, Gen was huddled in her quilted jacket, her breath hitching in little white puffs. The interior of the car smelled faintly of the peppermint tea she liked and the lingering, buttery scent of the cinnamon rolls Tony had almost burned at the bakery. The scent had stuck to my hair and my clothes.
They weren't burnt. They had been perfect, just like the truffle. And I hated him for it.
I white-knuckled the steering wheel as we passed the Mount Tabor High School entrance. The brick building looked like a fortress in the gray afternoon light. Every time I drove past those gates, I felt a phantom weight on my chest—the memory of a thousa
