DANTE

I don’t get out of the car.

The engine's been killed for two minutes now, but I remain seated, with arms crossed and eyes forward. My fingers drum against my forearm, it's an idle beat, an attempt to contain the irritation swelling inside me.

I can wait her out. Let her think I’m not home. Let her get tired of standing there like a stray cat in front of the gate. Maybe she’d wander off into the night, back to whatever hell she clawed herself out of this ...