They drove in silence for several minutes, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between them. Jack’s knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, tendons flexing, his gaze fixed on the road as if staring hard enough could keep the conversation from circling back to where he knew it was going.
Molly sat angled toward the passenger window, watching the familiar streetlights smear into yellow streaks against the night. Her jaw was set, her posture tense, one ankle hooked over the other. She wasn’t fidgeting or shifting uncomfortably—Molly didn’t do restless. But her stillness carried its own weight, and Jack could feel it pressing into him.
Finally, she shifted, her voice cutting through the quiet like a stone through glass.
“Back up.”
Jack glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
