The adrenaline was leaving Elodie’s body in a slow, vibrating hum, replaced by a fatigue so deep it felt like her bones were made of lead.
They were in the back of a yellow taxi, heading toward Brooklyn.
Alistair sat next to her. He was leaning his head back against the cracked vinyl seat, eyes closed. He looked tragically out of place, a man in tuxedo pants and a ruined dress shirt sitting in a cab that smelled of pine air freshener and old cigarettes.
He didn't have a phone. He didn't have a wallet. The FBI had confiscated everything, and what they hadn't taken, he had lost in the arrest.
He reached out, his hand finding hers in the space between them. He didn't open his eyes. He just laced his fingers through hers and squeezed, as if checking she was still there.
"Where are we goin
