Myra
The morning after Dot’s return felt different. The sharpened focus I’d felt at the bridge over the gorge hadn't worn off; if anything, it had hardened into something cold and crystalline. We were all in the kitchen, a hum of activity as we prepped for the Friday rush, but my ears were tuned to the street. I was waiting for a sound that didn't fit the local acoustic—an engine that didn't belong in Mount Tabor.
I didn't have to wait long.
At precisely ten o'clock, a low, predatory purr vibrated through the glass of the front window, rattling the display jars of peppermint sticks. It wasn't the rattling roar of a farm truck or the apologetic hum of a local sedan. It was the sound of German engineering and deep, bottomless pockets. I looked up to see a matte-black Mercedes-Maybach pull
