Pulling off I-40, Brian headed into the suburbs. Layla was quiet beside him, as she’d been most of the day. Her gaze was trained out the passenger window. He could feel the sadness radiating off her even though her face was hidden from him by the brim of a baseball cap. His own gut was tight with grief and frustration, his hands flexing restlessly on the wheel while he damned himself for not preventing this. If he’d just talked to her when she needed reassurance, if he had given her a say in his plans, they would be in a totally different place in their lives now. She’d be safe, he would be with her, and they’d both be happy. He pulled into a quiet residential neighborhood and she stirred, turning her head to look at him with her brows raised in inquiry. “I’ve got a buddy out here,” he explained, slowing down in front of a one-story ranch house with a Chevy Silverado in the driveway and a Sea-Doo trailer in the space beside it. Parking, he left the keys in the ignition and said, “Let me see if he’s home.”
