“I can’t 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 a faint trace of motor oil.

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

Her forehead was giving off intense heat right through my palm, as hot as a mug of fresh tea.

Ethan pressed the ignition button, and the rubber wiper blades began their hard, rhythmic scrape across the wet glass.

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