Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Minivan
The rain had started again, drumming against the windshield of our 2014 Honda Odyssey in steady, rhythmic sheets. The rhythmic sweep of the wiper blades was the only sound inside the vehicle for three miles.
I kept both hands at ten and two, my posture deliberately casual, trying desperately to project the mundane reality of suburban domesticity. But my knuckles were warm. The blood was still pulsing through my veins with the electric, hyper-aware buzz I had spent over a decade suppressing with yoga, gardening, and herbal tea.
Sarah was staring out the passenger window, her reflection ghosted against the wet glass of the strip malls flashing by.
"Who was that?" she finally asked. Her voice wasn't angry; it was wounded, stripped of its usual teenage nonchalance.
"It was just self-defense, Sarah," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "I told you, when I was in college—"
"Stop it, Mom." Sarah whipped around in her seat, her seatbelt locking with a sharp click. "Do not give me that community center self-defense garbage. I’ve seen those classes. They teach you to yell 'no' and scratch someone's eyes out. You... you didn't even move your feet until he swung. You threw a two-hundred-pound man into the ceiling without blinking. You looked like you were putting away groceries."
"I used his momentum against him," I said, keeping my gaze locked on the taillights ahead. "Judo is about leverage, not—"
"You took his punch out of the air like you caught a baseball!" Sarah’s voice cracked, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. "His eyes, Mom. When he looked at you before you threw him... he looked like he was staring at a monster. And then you looked at him, and... I didn't recognize your face. You looked like you were going to kill him."
My fingers tightened involuntarily on the steering wheel, leaving pale indentations in the faux-leather grip. The truth hung between us, heavy and toxic. She was right. For a fraction of a second, when Jake had stepped toward Sarah and raised his hand, the suburban mother had vanished. What took her place was Operative Vance—the apex of an illegal black-budget program that trained women to hunt targets through war zones with bare hands.
"I would never let anyone hurt you," I whispered. "That's all you need to know. Ever."
"No, that's not all I need to know!" Sarah shouted, slamming her palm against the dashboard. "I'm sixteen, Mom! Every other mom in our neighborhood talks about their college friends, or their hometown, or shows pictures of their wedding. You don't have a single photo album before I was three! You have no family that visits! We move every four years because you get 'itchy feet'! Who are you? Are we in danger?"
The question hung in the humid air of the minivan, sharp as a bayonet.
*Are we in danger?*
I looked at the rearview mirror. Five car lengths behind us, a dark gray Dodge Charger with tinted windows maintained the exact same following distance through two consecutive turns. It had been behind us since we left the parking lot of the strip mall.
May you like
"No, sweetheart," I lied again, easing my foot gently onto the accelerator as I signaled for a right turn onto our quiet, maple-lined street. "You're safe. I promise."
***
