CAINE
I grip the steering wheel tight enough to leave indentations in the leather as Jack-Eye's voice crackles through my phone's speaker. My patience—already hanging by a thread—stretches thinner with each passing minute.
We couldn't find Halloway anywhere. Even Thom couldn't track him down, much like he couldn't track Grace. He keeps blaming some strange magic in the area, but I don't care about excuses; only results.
And we have none.
Which is why we're in our current situation.
"No, you need to take Spruce Avenue, not Bruce Avenue," Jack-Eye says for the third time.
"There is no fucking Spruce Avenue!" I slam my hand against the steering wheel with a low growl, my vision hazing red for a split second.
The GPS on this car's dash shows nothing but a maze of similarly named streets in a godforsaken suburban hellscape.
"Well, that's what Lyre says, and since she's the one who knows where we're going—"
