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The mother was stumbling. Her left boot was dragging through the three-inch slush, her canvas tote bag slung over her neck, her breath pluming in thick, frantic white clouds beneath the amber hazard flashers. In her right hand, clutched against her hip, was the heavy white plastic bag containing the ribeye steak and the apple pie.
She had taken the food.
Arthur didn’t jump out of the car. He knew that sudden movement from a large, strange man in an isolated gravel lot would trigger the animal panic that had lived in her eyes behind the dumpster.
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He reached down, pressed the interior release button, and popped the rear passenger door open six inches with a soft, mechanical click.
Then he kept his hands flat on the steering wheel, in plain sight, looking straight ahead through the windshield wipers clearing the snow.
The door swung wide open.
A gust of freezing mountain wind cut through the heated cabin, carrying the scent of wet wool, cheap acrylic yarn, road salt, and the sweet, lingering musk of bayberry wax.
