She stowed her bags of groceries, searching her mind for a reference, and found none. She was pretty sure she’d never seen the woman before. But when she turned, there the woman was, so close Sandy took an involuntary backward step. “You’re Jordy Cline’s mother.” The woman wasn’t asking so much as she was making an accusation. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was shaking as if she were cold, which was ridiculous given that the temperature was still hovering near one hundred degrees. She was sweating, so much that her short, dark hair was plastered to her cheeks and temples. She looked worn-out, used up, battered by fatigue, maybe, or grief, or insanity. Something about her was off. Sandy could feel it. She realized the woman had no purse, no car keys in hand. How had she gotten here? Common sense warned she should get into her truck and go, but a less cautious impulse ruled, keeping her in place, trying to sort out the woman’s identity, her problem, whether she needed help.
