Chapter 31 The Penthouse

• Rain freckles the windshield in a thin, uneven sheet, catching the city lights and smearing them into white and amber ribbons. Victor drives with both hands on the wheel. Every time the car hits a rough patch, his grip tightens hard enough for the tendons in his hands to stand out. Once, at a sharp turn, he blinks as if the headlights from the opposite lane cut too deep behind his eyes.
• My phone rests cold in my palm.
• The screen is dark now, but I keep waking it anyway. Alexander’s name sits in my recent calls like something left behind on purpose. The attack keeps replaying underneath it. Screeching tires. Concrete. Victor’s blood. The footage on his phone.