I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Uncle Silas reached forward and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Magdalene, you’re safe.” His hand was ice.
I nodded.
He eased back into the seat, a long breath leaving him.
“Good. Good indeed.”
Highway 1 stretched ahead, slick and black under the streetlights. The neon pawn shops and pizza joint signs buzzed faintly in the cold as the orange glow of Boston shrank in the Shelby’s mirror.
I shifted Graham’s suit coat off my shoulders. He was right. I wouldn’t need the blanket much longer with this heater.
“I must ask, though, what are you wearing—or rather, what aren't you wearing?” Uncle Silas asked. “And why are we in Boston?”
“Max had an award show.”
“Award? With you dressed like that? Must have been the Oscars of Porn if your dress was any clue.”
“Actually, yes,” I said a bit too quickly. “The Obsidian Curtain Awards. I was supposed to accept an award with Katie tonight.”
“Supposed to? Why ever didn’t you?”
“I fell and twisted my ankle pretty bad.” It throbbed as if to remind me.
“Are you alright, my dear?”
“Yes. But someone…” I shot a glare toward Graham. “Won’t let me get off without going to the ER tonight.”
“Max, you can’t fucking walk.”
“I do agree with the lad, my dear,” Uncle Silas said, folding his hands primly. “Best not put it off. Wouldn’t want you solving this case with a bum ankle.”
Headlights swept over us, washing the interior in a pale light before the darkness settled again.
“What do you mean, solving this case?” I turned in my seat. “That’s his job.” I thumbed over my shoulder at Graham. “I’m done with serial killers.”
“That may be, but they clearly aren’t done with you.”
I let out a sigh and sank into my seat; the leather stuck to my thighs, reminding me I’d never fully be able to relax.
As the road wound north, the air sharpened—salt and heat bled through the vents, mixing with the warmth of engine oil.
I glanced over. Graham’s grip on the wheel tightened.
The intoxicating low throb of the motor and his intense focus helped blur out the thought that I was, once again, a target of some sicko’s deranged idea of a good time.
By the time the road narrowed to Atlantic Ave, the familiar sights of Port Grey revealed themselves in fragments. Damp salt fog rolled over thehood, softening the headlights. Clapboard homes appeared one by one, until they claimed the streets.
We passed the salt-stained town sign. It should have felt like home. Instead, dread rolled in with the fog. The moment I stepped out of the car, I’d be a target again. At least in the moving car—with Graham—the killer couldn’t reach me.
We pulled up to the hospital’s loading bay, headlights cutting across the wet concrete. Cold air hit my bare legs as I cracked the door open.
“Back inside, gramps,” Graham said, flipping the mirror open toward Uncle Silas.
“I beg your pardon?” Uncle Silas huffed. “I’m not some genie to be ordered around whenever you feel like it.”
“Don’t argue. The nurse is coming. Get in.”
