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The leather of his jacket creaks as he leans deeper into the car. He doesn’t hurry, because both Mint and I are frozen in terror. Leisurely, he takes the key from the ignition. A whiff of leather and tobacco reaches me, a smell that reminds me of my dad and my childhood, but the comfort I associate with the smell is out of place in the situation.
“I’ve got money,” Mint says again in a high-pitched tone.
The man’s voice is deep, penetrating through my breastbone and resonating in the cavity of my chest where my breaths come shallow. “That’s assuming it’s your money I want.”
Mint raises his hands. “What do you want, man? I can pay you. Let us go and—”
“Your car,” the man drawls.
“My car?” Mint stammers.
The man’s smile stretches. “With your girlfriend in it.”
