Two days had slipped by since I learned about Alistair's car crash. I didn't give it much thought, though a vague sense that something was off flickered through my mind.
Alistair was the most cautious driver I knew. Eight years behind the wheel, and not a single accident. Barely a scratch on his record.
Quentin took a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, his eyes like chips of ice. "Too bad he didn't die," he said, the chill in his voice slicing through the room. "I've always said evildoers get their due. Serves him right."
I figured the wreck would finally shut Alistair up for a while. But no. Even from his hospital bed, the man couldn't stay still. He cycled through phone numbers, calling me from a new one every time I blocked the last.
Quentin grew sick of it. He cut my old SIM card
