The drive to Belmont Max Security Prison was boring with Alexei just blasting classical music on the stereo — and by classic I meant Bach, Pachelbel, and Beethoven kind of stuff.
It was nice. But even with the messiest of tunes, he still seems to be enjoying.
“Hey,” I called, sparking up a conversation. “I still have a lot of question about what you did last week.”
“Hmm? And what would that be?”
I ignored the mocking look on his face and gazed out onto the sidewalk outside. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“How did you manage to think through all those schemes? You know, while we were escaping?”
“I already told you. Seems like you weren’t listening.”
“No, you didn’t,” I countered, my eyes now on him.
“Then perhaps you’ve gone deaf. Or you’ve got short-term amnesia. Either way I
