Mother stood in the doorway of their four-star hotel room, hands gripping her hips, scowl harder than a sun-baked worm on Southern California asphalt. Matching her stare, Zoe Morgan raked the inside of her cheek with the braces on her molars and glanced down at her nondescript flannel shirt and jeans. She started to say, “Because they match the ugly freak wearing them,” but she scratched it. Candace would whip out her little notebook, twist open her precious Montblanc pen, and write that one down for the shrink, for sure. “I don’t expect you to understand.” Zoe snatched her book bag off the bed and slung it over her shoulder, barely missing Mother’s chin with the swing. Oops. A couple of lines in Mother’s brow smoothed under the weight of feigned concern, but the wolfish blue eyes betrayed her. She slid a rough hand down Zoe’s arm. “Honey, please. If my colleagues see you dressed like that, it’ll—”
