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But as I rounded the corner, someone yelled, “There she is!”
My car was faster than they could run, and I made a getaway. The only problem—now they knew what I drove. Ugh!
My parents live in the same house where I was raised in Rosedale Park, about fifteen minutes from my current house. When I pulled up, the lights were on, cars lined up in the driveway. It’s a great neighborhood. Nevertheless, out of caution, everyone locks their car doors. This is still Detroit.
That evening, I felt paranoia sweep over me. I made sure nothing of value was on the seat and that the doors were locked before I walked up to the house. Looking around, I was worried that a reporter might be lurking in the bushes and ran to the door.
George was waiting for me. “What you runnin’ from, Bella?”
“Reporters, mostly. They were hanging around the corner when I left the house.”
“Like a gang,” he said, holding the door open. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine. Curious about Flynn Safadi now. I did a bunch of research.”
“I know of his family. I did some work for them about twenty years ago.”
After I was over the threshold, he shut the door, making a production of turning the lock with a flourish.
“Thanks, Pop.”
“There she is.” It was Lillian, dramatically sweeping in. “You look okay. I was so worried. Are you hungry?”
She gathered us toward the kitchen, pulling chairs out, placing bowls and bottles on the table, calling for the others to come.
“I’m fine. But now that I’ve visited, the reporters know my car. I wanted to go back to work, too.”
“You’d be mobbed,” George said, a hand on my shoulder. “You saved a life. Maybe the years of nursing school have paid off.”
“Maybe. I remembered everything I needed to know. I had to decide to move him and risk worsening any spinal cord involvement, or take the chance the car would catch fire.”
“Did Papa tell you what he knows about the family?” Lillian asked, carrying a gigantic pan of lasagna.
“He was just getting ready to,” I said.
“I don’t know anything recent,” he said. “This was before Flynn was born. They’d just bought lakefront property up in Traverse City. They had Christmas shops in all the resort towns, and the flagship store was already nationally famous.
“Once their children arrived, everything they did was news. TV watchers couldn’t hear enough about the latest achievements of the mighty Safadi family.”
“You already know they’re loaded,” Lillian said. “No eBay underpants for the Safadi women.”
I barked out a laugh. “They don’t know what they’re missing. Oh, here’s a little something for you, Pop.” I pulled out the grocery store bag.
“I was just going to ask you if you had any more of those Fruit of the Loom long-sleeve T-shirts.”
The discussion obviously annoyed Lillian, who pushed away from the table, upsetting coffee cups. “You two. Honest to God.”
“Mom, it’s fun,” I said.
“It’s sick. I’m getting dessert out, if you’re still hungry.”
“We just ate dinner,” George said.
“Are you implying that I’m getting fat?”
“Oh God, no,” he said, tittering. “Do you think I have a death wish?”
“What do you have?” I asked Lillian.
