Not because I wanted some elaborate revenge game.
I simply didn’t want her walking outside, opening an app, and treating the vehicle like property that had been stolen from her.
Nothing had been stolen.
I had taken possession of my own car.
I locked the garage.
Went inside.
Washed my hands.
Then I went to bed.
I slept better than I had in weeks.
At eight the next morning, my phone started vibrating.
One missed call.
Then another.
Then five.
Then twelve.
Messages began stacking underneath them.
WHERE IS THE CAR?
CALL ME.
EM, THIS ISN’T FUNNY.
WHAT DID YOU DO?
I saw the previews without opening them.
Then the voice messages started arriving.
I ignored those too.
I walked into the kitchen and made coffee.
Slowly.
I measured the grounds.
Filled the machine.
Put my mug beneath it.
My daughter wandered in wearing pajamas, rubbing one eye.
She glanced toward the living room, where Jason had been sleeping the night before.
“He’s gone?” she asked.
I nodded.
My sister and Jason had returned to her place early that morning.
Apparently she had expected to leave in the Corolla and discovered it missing only after she got home and needed it again.
My daughter looked relieved before she could hide it.
That expression hurt more than any Amazon charge.
I had spent years measuring the cost of helping my sister in dollars.
Gas.
Internet.
Groceries.
Rent.
A car.
But my daughter had been paying too.
Her currency had been comfort.
I poured my coffee.
Then the scream came.
It wasn’t from my phone.
It came from outside.
Sharp, furious, almost disbelieving.
I walked toward the window and looked through the blinds.
My sister was standing in my driveway.
Her face was red.
Her hair was pulled back badly, as if she had tied it while running out the door.
Jason stood a few feet behind her, staring at the empty driveway where the Corolla normally sat when they stayed with me.
My sister looked from one side of the property to the other.
Then she looked toward the garage.
Her eyes narrowed.
