Instead of talking to me, Roxie had crossed her arms over her chest and glared out the window for the entire four-hour drive to Boston. She didn’t ask to stop or look over at me or uncross her arms once.
When I pulled up to the curb of Mickey’s house, she finally glanced at me. The dawn sun flooded into the car and hit her brown eyes, making them a sea of gold.
She uncrossed her arms and sat up. “What are we doing here?”
“Same thing we did to Charlie.”
All the blood drained from her rosy cheeks. “Why?” she asked me, voice barely above a whisper.
She turned in my direction, and I couldn’t tell if she was truly intrigued or if she was terrified by the mere thought of torturing someone else.
Instead of sugarcoating this for her, like I had with any of my previous girlfriends, I undid my
