He leads me to a black sedan that manages to be both boring and sensible, which is probably the exact reason why he picked it in the first place. He throws our one bag into the back seat and we get into the car.
“Where’d you pick up this one?” I ask.
“A few miles out from here, while I was on the coffee run this morning,” he replies without hesitation or apology.
Guilt rakes at my conscience, but I suppress the feeling. Stealing cars is one of my lesser crimes in any case. If I start feeling guilty about every single one of my sins, I won’t make it through the day.
A flash of unwelcome memory flits through my head. The image of a masked man whose eyes are fixed on me just before the light goes out from behind them.
I remember how hard I pushed that knife into him. The memory makes me
