The interior of the armored SUV was dead silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. Outside, the Illinois valley was swallowed by a thick, oppressive darkness, washed out by the relentless downpour of rain.
I sat in the plush leather back seat, my gaze fixed on the passing shadows outside the window. My expression was a mask of cold stone, but beneath the surface, my mind was a chaotic storm. Marie Santos sat right beside me, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket. She looked fragile, her face pale under the dim dashboard lights, but her eyes were wide awake, staring blankly ahead.
He's your blood.
