Chapter 20: Marcy's Last Move

Greta's POV

Cal's hand on my shoulder woke me, and he said my name once, low.

"Marcy's here. Two cars. Don't turn on the light."

I was at the window with a quilt around me before I was properly awake.

The SUV stopped crooked in my drive with its engine running and its high beams across the porch.

A small blue sedan pulled in behind it, and two doors opened.

Two women got out, the stiff pink-faced ones from the fund dinner, in coats pulled on over pajamas.

Marcy got out last.

She wore no coat.

Her hair was loose and wet with snow, and there was a tire iron in her right hand.

"Call Birdie," I said.

"I did." Cal was pulling his boots on. "I called her before I woke you."

"What did she say?"

"She said 'Hold on,' and hung up."

I didn't understand what that meant until a minute later.

Far down the lake road, where the gravel bent toward the highway, a row of headlights came on.

Then another row.

Trucks, one behind the other, nose to tail, across the width of the lane.

A man in a plaid coat stepped out of the lead truck and stood in front of it with his arms folded.

A long line of lights stretched back toward the highway.

Nine families, one dog.

"They're boxing her in," Cal said.

"They can't do that."

"They're parked," he said. "Parking's legal."

I put on my coat and my boots and walked out the front door.

I closed it behind me, and I went down the steps into the drive.

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