“Where did you last see it?”
“Probably in our bedroom.” And then he went strangely silent, like he’d said something he hadn’t meant to.
“I’ll just drive back and get it,” he said quickly.
“You’ll never make it. I’ll call Mom, she’s ten minutes from the house.”
“No, babe. Seriously. I can handle it.”
That was the first wrong note. Trent always let my mother help. Now he was desperate to keep her out of our home.
I called her anyway.
While I was on the phone, Trent checked his watch, shifted in his seat, and kept glancing at the airport entrance like he was waiting for something — or someone — unpleasant to arrive.
Twenty minutes later Mom called back, and she didn’t say she’d found the passport.
She said, “Can he hear me? Don’t let him know what I’m about to tell you.”
Then, in a terrified whisper: “Honey, he set you up. Don’t get on that plane.”
