Eighteen
“It’s uncanny, how he works thing out.” — Francesca BoyleIsaac sat in the passenger seat of the patrol car as the officer drove. He had asked to be dropped back at Dakin Boyle; that’s where he had left his car — or Francesca’s car, he still wasn’t sure which — after receiving the news of Jenny’s death from Detective Goff.
It was his first time in a police patrol car. In the back of his mind he was aware that, under normal circumstances, he would have been full of questions — about the comms, the data terminal, the licence plate recognition system. But not today. Today, sitting in the patrol car confronted by its normally intriguing array of technology, he was almost completely absorbed in his own numbness. The real world impinged only peripherally on his consciousness, as if it
