He nodded again and said quietly that he had felt something was wrong the moment my parents handed over the bag at their house in Chula Vista.
He explained that their expressions had been too certain, as if everything was already decided and we were just part of a plan.
“I did not know for sure,” he said, “but I knew something was wrong.”
We closed the bag and got back into the car, and neither of us needed to say anything because the truth was already clear.
We drove without direction for a while until we both silently agreed on what needed to happen next.
We turned the car around and headed back to my parents’ house.
The drive felt unreal as if everything looked the same but no longer meant the same thing, and every passing car felt like a threat even though no one was following us.
We arrived at their house in the afternoon and parked without speaking.
We used the spare key hidden outside and walked inside with the bag, placing it in the hallway where my mother Patricia Pierce would immediately see it.
We left without a note and locked the door behind us.