The drive back to Sierra's apartment was pretty much filled with silence. Theron was a man tuned to frequencies most humans couldn't even perceive, and now? It was the rhythmic hitch in Sierra's breathing.
She was sitting perfectly still in the passenger seat, her hands folded neatly over her bag, staring out the window at the blurred neon lights. To any casual observer, she looked like a composed professional heading home after a long day of hard work. But Theron saw the way her knuckles were white against the leather. He saw the way she hadn't taken a single sip of her water since they left the office, and the way her jaw was set in a line of rigid, fragile defiance.
He pulled the car to a smooth stop at the curb of her building. Usually, this was where he would offer a polite "goodnight" and wait until she was safely inside the lobby. Tonight, however, he didn't just leave the engine idling. He reached over and turned the ignition off.
