The silence hung in the air like a wet blanket inside the car as it sped through the bustling, bright city of Los Angeles. Outside, the world was a neon blur of high-end boutiques, buildings, cafe shops and late-night revelers, but inside the leather-lined interior of the Thorn vehicle, the atmosphere was suffocating.
It had been this way for the past thirty minutes since they had left the salt-sprayed chaos of Santa Monica.
Vincent sat huddled in the corner of the seat, the chill of the Pacific still clinging to his skin. His fingers were restless, moving with a nervous energy as he pulled a wet, lone thread from his already torn shirt.
The fabric was ruined, much like the façade of innocence he had maintained for the last few days. He felt the weight of the woman sitting next to him—a weight heavier than the damp clothes on his back.
