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“Believe me, it was.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And as you kindly reminded me—I might get killed tonight.”

She doesn’t answer.Just watches me, like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh or drive us into oncoming traffic.

“What better time to be generous?”I gesture toward the mailbox.“Like I said.Loose ends.”

Her eyes widen.“Oh my God.This is abucket list joy ride.I am being held hostage on a philanthropic crime spree.”

“Hostage is a strong word,” I say.“You said you were bored.”

“Anything else?”she asks through gritted teeth.“You want to swing by Target?Return some khakis?”

I pause.“Actually—stamps.”

She laughs once—no joy in it—then grips the wheel like she might snap it in half.“Stamps.”

I nod.“Ran out.”

She makes a sound that might be laughter.Or internal bleeding.Then she pops open the center console, pulls out a half-used sheet, and slaps them against my chest.

“Congratulations.You are now the most organized killer in America.”

I pocket the stamps.“That was generous.”

“Don’t.Don’t make this charming.”

When I get back, she’s staring straight ahead like she’s in a hostage video and I just made her rehearse her lines.

She throws the car in drive and peels out like the vehicle’s also given up on morality.“If you ask me to stop for stationery, I’m jumping out.”

“Relax,” I say.“I highly doubt you’ve mastered the tuck and roll maneuver.But, lucky for you, I’m done.”

“Sure about that?”

I glance over.“Unless I see a florist.Some debts deserve flowers.”

She scoffs.“You don’t seem like the type.”

“If you’d tasted that soup, you’d understand.”

She groans—long, low, like she’s regretting every decision that led to this passenger seat.

But she keeps driving.

Because curiosity’s a hell of a drug and now she needs to know how this ends.

Good girl.

52

Vance

The sky’s that fake black-blue that only shows up after midnight—too dark for dusk, too lazy for dawn.We’re back on the highway, Rachel behind the wheel, singing something off-key with the windows cracked and her elbow out like it’s a Sunday drive and not the aftermath of a barely contained situation.

I shift in my seat, ribs flaring hot.“You missed the turn.”