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Danny tried to catch a few hours of sleep at an interstate rest stop with tractor-trailers stacked like cordwood at the far end. He leaned his seat back and thought he’d sleep like a baby. After all, no one knew this vehicle, and the boy had never been in it. He’d left the motel room clean, or at least clean enough not to cause suspicion. It was done. He was clear of it. Why wouldn’t he sleep like a baby? Or rather, why didn’t he?
Because Danny still wasn’t done (f*****g Adam) and he couldn’t help but think he wasn’t clear of it, either. His head had a dry ache, and the inside of his skull felt oddly tender and alternately hot and cold, like a bad sunburn. He was occasionally racked by shuddering chills, and he’d compulsively checked the rearview mirror while driving—not for pursuing
