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He drops me at the passenger door and flings it open. “Get in.”
My mouth opens and closes again. I catch the eye of one of his lackeys smoking against a sedan across the road. He blows smoke against the black sky and shrugs.
“Where are we—”
“Get in before I change my mind about killing you, Penelope.”
I don’t have to be asked twice.
Heat blasts from the dash and scalds my limbs as I slide into the passenger seat. Raphael’s door slams with more force than necessary, and we’re peeling off over frosted pavement before I can even get my seatbelt on.
I’m confused, crawling with awkwardness and stupefied to my core. I keep glancing at Raphael, but the expression carved into his face is so unreadable that I can’t tell if it’d be best to apologize or to crack a joke.
I settle for drowning in the silence.
I fidget with the radio.
Dig for discarded fries down the side of the seat.
As I start doodling on the condensation on the passenger side window, the car comes to an abrupt stop. My heart lurches forward with my body, and as I turn to face Raphael, he grabs me by the scruff of my neck and lifts my back up off the seat. When he drops me again, there’s something soft under my head.
A pillow.
Expressionless, he reaches into the back seat again and produces a blanket. He throws it over my head and the engine whirs to life again.
“Go to sleep.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Penelope. Forget about Martin O’Hare; he’s my problem now.”
