My four-year-old granddaughter. The light of my life.

Sophia’s gaze darted toward the mall entrance, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat. “Emma’s with Richard and his mother. Diane wanted to take her to the park. A picnic.”

“And you didn’t go?”

“I… I had errands.”

“Errands,” I repeated, glancing at the empty chair beside her. “Where is your car, Sophia? The Highlander?”

Her smile faltered, shattering completely. She looked down at her coffee, the steam rising between us like a barrier. “Richard needed it for work. His truck broke down last month. The transmission.”

“For a month?” I kept my voice level, the same tone I used when cross-examining a hostile witness during my thirty-three years as a real estate attorney. “So, how did you get here?”

“The bus.” She shrugged, a jerky, unnatural motion. “It’s fine, Mom. Saves on gas. Helps the environment.”

“Sophia.” I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. Her skin was ice cold, despite the sweltering California afternoon. “Look at me.”