If Becca ever took a driving test while possessed by Garamanthus, the student driver police officer would take her directly to jail.
She drove the BMW like she stole it—literally. Stoplights were just a suggestion and all the snow in the world wouldn’t have stopped her from driving at fifty miles per hour, swerving through the gathering snow.
She fishtailed out of Logan Square toward downtown, a straight shot down North Milwaukee Avenue. She kept the same speed and cruised through all the lights on late yellow.
Becca waited for the police sirens. It was just a matter of time before someone called the cops. They’d run the plates, which would match the description of the vehicle, which was probably already being reported as stolen, and the police would stop Garamanthus. If she didn’t kill
