(Nolan)
By the time we got back onto Main Street, I was sick of the car, sick of the town, and close to leaving both of my parents on the sidewalk.
The Chevy made a scraping sound every time I turned too sharp. The steering wheel shook if I pushed past thirty. Dad kept muttering that Miller’s was a joke because they wanted more money than the car was worth. Mom kept twisting in her seat to stare at every woman we passed like Belle might suddenly be carrying groceries in broad daylight.
Crosswell looked too calm for the kind of mess we brought into it.
“You should’ve argued with that mechanic more,” Dad said from the back.
“I should’ve dropped you there.”
“He was hiding something.”
“Everybody’s hiding something from you because they don’t want to talk to you.”
Mom turned toward me.
