The car hummed through the Seattle dark like it was made for it. Smooth. Quiet. The kind of quiet that costs more than my rent. The leather seats cradled my battered body in a way that made me want to apologize to every chair I'd ever sat in before. I didn't know cars could feel like this. I didn't know anything could feel like this.
Anders drove with one hand on the wheel. The other rested on the gear shift, relaxed, like he'd been born in this position. His sleeves were pushed up—when had he done that—and I could see the edge of something dark inked into his forearm. A tattoo. Of course he had tattoos. Of course the criminal millionaire with the AR-15 and the three coats had ink. Probably something meaningful. Probably something dangerous. Probably a skull or a snake or a quote in a lan
