BRIANNE,” VALERIE CALLED FROM the foot of the stairs, “how are you doing up there?”
“Brianne,” she called a second time. “It’s almost eleven o’clock. Your father will be here any minute.”
Still no answer. Not that Val was surprised. Her daughter rarely answered until at least her third try.
“Brianne,” she dutifully obliged, “how are you coming along with the packing?”
The sound of a door opening, agitated footsteps in the upstairs hallway, a blur of shoulder-length brown hair and long, lean legs, the shock...