“What did Grandma always say?”
“Never let them know you’re in a hurry.”
It was fourteen minutes until the car park closed with a crash of steel and blanket of darkness. Forty four minutes until he finished work.
Maia’s hand was cold in hers. It was past dinner-time but she didn’t complain. Mother would like that.
Lucy in the pram did enough whining for both of them. Her balled-up fists boxed the air until the cashier asked in a stage whisper, “does she want a lollipop?”
“Yes please.” Bad parent. They never have to stop for nappies in the movies.
Father would think it was political, like when she came in, draped in the football jersey of the other team.
The officer had the same creased brow but a kind face beneath. He guided her to dob in her loved ones. A pat on the back, a cup of tea and there’s the Witness Protection Officer.
She trotted through the brutalist arches, phone chiming one hour until boarding. It was never political. It was revenge for her mother.
A cheerful voice called out as the barrier arm creaked into life.
“Request from some politician. Carpark’s closing early.”
Word Count: 197
Genre: Thriller
The above is my take on the photo prompt for flash fiction less than 200 words.
Via Suddenly