“At this hour?”
“At this age?” Vivian shot back.
Then, because the poor man looked stunned, she smiled for the first time in weeks.
“Yes. At this hour. Please.”
As the car pulled away, she turned once.
Dean stood in the front doorway of his expensive colonial, one hand braced on the frame, his face tight with disbelief.
His wife, Melissa, hovered behind him in workout clothes, phone in hand.
Vivian knew that look.
Not concern.
Damage control.
Her grandson Owen appeared upstairs for half a second, looking down through the glass like he was watching a storm move across the yard.
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