Jessica, his wife of ten years, thirty-five, blonde, always immaculately dressed even at dawn. Before the kids were born, she worked in marketing for a tech startup downtown. Now she stayed home full-time, managing PTA committees and Instagram stories.
Tyler and Emma were bouncing despite the early hour, each wearing the new outfits I’d bought them specifically for this trip: Tyler in a T-shirt with cartoon sea turtles, Emma in a pink sundress with little white hibiscus flowers printed all over it. They had little matching kids’ carry-ons, also bought by me, with airplane stickers already on the sides.
And someone else.
An older woman stood beside them, an overnight suitcase at her feet. I recognized her instantly from birthday parties and school events.
Linda. Sixty-three. Jessica’s mother.
She wore a comfortable travel outfit—elastic-waist pants, a floral blouse, a light cardigan—and a look that hovered somewhere between excitement and mild discomfort. Her hair, more gray now than blonde, was pulled back into a neat bun. Her suitcase had a Maui luggage tag.
A small warning bell went off in my mind.
Why was Linda here?
