Which I did, a peculiar blend of sweat, old pot smoke, and the chemical wallop of the shop’s air freshener. So I washed my hair twice with his shampoo, then put on freshly washed jeans and one of his ancient Atlanta PD sweatshirts, items I’d liberated during my most recent plunder. When I got back downstairs, he was lying on his back under the counter, wiring the new monitor into the security system video feed. I scrubbed my hair with a towel. “Do you need some help?” “No.” The sound of rummaging intensified. “Did I leave the screwdriver up there?” “It’s behind your head.” “Oh.” He retrieved the screwdriver and returned his attention to the installation. The effects of whatever Gabriella had given him were wearing off—I could see the first spit and flare of exasperation coming back—but on the whole, he was remarkably calm, especially considering the afternoon he’d had.
What do You think about Deeper Than The Grave (2014)?
