Raymond was waiting by the edge of the platform, his gold watch catching the yellow glare of the single overhead streetlamp. He wore a cashmere coat that looked too thin for the autumn wind, his hands tucked deep into his pockets.
“Elena,” Raymond said, stepping forward with a tight, neat smile that did not reach his eyes. “We have been waiting for you.”
He reached for our single suitcase, his fingers brushing mine for a second, dry and cold.
“How is your father?” I asked, keeping my hand flat against Leo’s shoulder.
“He is holding on,” Raymond said, his smooth, formal cadence sounding exactly like the corporate voicemails he had left me all week. “He wants to see the boy.”
Leo gripped the hem of his shirt, his head bowed as Raymond looked down at him.
“You look just like your father, Leo,” Raymond said, but his eyes were already scanning the dark parking lot behind us, his fingers tapping a fast rhythm against his thigh.
“Is the drive to the house long?” I asked, my voice thin in the cold air.
