“Are you going to Spain?”

I heard him behind me on the sidewalk; he’d hurried out of the building to catch up.

The driver held the rear door of the car open, and Bryce stood there staring at it, then at me.

“The girls are already at the airport,” I said.

“Our flight’s this afternoon.”

His face twisted.

“You can’t take my daughters out of the country without my legal authorization.”

“You signed the international relocation consent three weeks ago.”