“I cannot drive fast on the highway in this rain,” he muttered, stepping past me into the narrow hallway.

The back seat of the station wagon was cold and smelled of damp carpet and faint motor oil.

I strapped June into her rear-facing car seat while her small fingers twitched against the thick nylon harness straps.

Her forehead was radiating intense heat straight through my palm, as hot as a mug of fresh tea.

Ethan hit the ignition button, and the rubber wiper blades started their hard, rhythmic scrape against the wet glass.

“Alan Vance sent three emails after eight o’clock tonight,” Ethan said, pulling out of our driveway into the dark street.