The capital moved past the windows in a steady blur of glass towers and streaking taillights. Becky drove with focused calm, left hand resting lightly on the wheel, right hand on her thigh. The two swords in the back rattled faintly with every turn, metal kissing leather.
I slipped Mary Stam's photograph back into the envelope and leaned against the seat, watching the city slide by. Sunlight glinted off windshields and building facades, casting fleeting reflections across my face.
Mary Stam was part of my life. One of the few reasons I was still breathing.
"We're here," Becky said, pulling the car over to the curb with a soft crunch of tires. She stayed seated for a long moment, engine ticking as it cooled, her gaze locked on the weathered building ahead, its faded brick facade cracked and overgrown with thin vines crawling up the side.
"You okay?" she asked, her voice steady but tight.
"Yeah," I said.
