Elle's Pov
I head for the curb where a black Lexus waits by the fire hydrant, engine running. The driver stands beside it in a blue suit, tall and stiff, his face blank like he was carved that way. He doesn't greet me or nod. He just opens the front door. I get in and he shuts the door with a heavy thud. From the rearview mirror, I spot Henderson in the back seat, typing on his phone.
We pull into traffic, and the car is silent. No small talk or explanation of where we're headed to, just the low, haunting melody playing on the radio; a cello piece that sounds like it's weeping. I look out the window, trying to track our progress. I'm expecting we'll head downtown. Maybe the industrial district. Maybe the Bronx.
But we don't.
