CHAPTER NINE
Rylie tapped her fingernails on the armrest and glared at Brisbane as they headed down Route 86.
“Do you think you could possibly go any slower?” she finally asked, after shifting in her seat and groaning and trying to make her displeasure known less vocally.
He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you drive like an eighty-year-old. Didn’t you have defensive driving in the Academy?”
He nodded. “Of course. We all did.” He pointed to the speed limit sign. “It says seventy. I’m going seventy.”
She sighed, “That’s just a guideline. You can go much faster than that.”
“Guideline?” His eyes narrowed, in the same way Bill Matthews’s had when she’d asserted the FBI rulebook was just a guideline, too. “Who the hell taught you how to drive? Limit. Lim. It. Meaning, you
