You’re insane; you’re going to die; get the hell out of here, her common sense kept warning her, even as she turned off the ignition and got ready to step out of the car. Just to play it safe, she placed a lock on the steering wheel for additional security. Even as she clicked the bar into place, she decided that locking up the car was morbidly amusing. Her body could be lying in shreds in the backyard of this horrible house for weeks, picked clean by ravenous pooches and chortled over by a psychotic old man, but, hey, at least her car would still be here, impervious to robbers. Yes, wonderful. It’d probably be stripped as clean as her bones. She’d briefly considered bringing someone with her, but couldn’t figure out who to ask. Her father? One of the MPs? Not bloody likely. The police? On what grounds? No one was accusing this man, even if he truly was Bruce’s father, of any crime. The police had nothing to question him about, and there was no way she was going to be able to explain it all to them.
