Allowing me to direct him as I please, as we follow the path set by Phyre’s car. She drives fast and with purpose. Pushing the speed limit until the back wheels begin to fishtail—causing big puffs of dirt to spin in her wake. Still, she handles it well, as though she’s done this before. Refusing to slow until she pulls onto the private paved road that leads to the Richters’ massive, adobe-style compound, where she parks just outside the gate and settles in to wait. She’s going to kill him? Now? Before most people have eaten their breakfast? I direct the raven to a nearby tree. Choosing a limb that allows me an unobstructed view, I watch via his small beady eyes as Phyre flips down her sun visor and inspects her hair and makeup in the dirty, rectangular mirror. Satisfied with what she sees, she slaps the visor in place, holds an open palm before her, puckers her lips, and spits. Staring at the small pool of saliva with a gaze so transfixed, I can’t even begin to guess what she’s up to.
