The car is moving fast.
Too fast for West 47th at night, weaving through gaps in traffic with the kind of practiced efficiency that tells you the person driving has done this before. Not a cab driver. Not an Uber. Someone who learned to drive in situations where getting somewhere quickly was the difference between living and not.
Damien's hand is on my knee. Pressing down. Stay still. Don't react.
I don't react.
I look at the driver in the rearview mirror instead. He's maybe forty-five. Dark hair going gray at the temples. A scar along his jawline that could be old or could just be the way the shadows fall. He hasn't looked back at us once.
That's the thing that tells me everything. A person who's done something wrong looks at you. Checks. Makes sure you're not about to do something. This man isn't checking because he already knows we can't do anything.
The bag with the ledgers is between my feet.
"Where are we going?" Damien asks. Conversational. Almost bored.
