Roxann tended to be more of a thick mug coffee drinker, but the pretty floral cups fit her mother. Even dressed in a running suit, her mother carried the sophistication of a woman who’d been cared for. Tonight she wore her shoulder length blond hair pulled back at the base of her skull and her eyes, normally a deep, warm green, looked faded, washed-out. Fatigued. “What’s wrong with your car?” Mom asked, setting the carafe in the middle of the table. That often seen habit gave Roxann the feeling of home and safety and a belief that the world had not gone nuts. Her mother’s kitchen stretched across the back half of the house, but the dark oak cabinets and the corner hearth gave it a cozy feel. The house, despite the Stickley furnishings and precious treasures that filled it, seemed empty without her father, but being there helped Roxann feel close to him. “The car is in the shop.” Not a total lie. She left out the part about it being torched by a psychopath.
