He glares at me as though offended by the question. “Jesus, did you really just ask me that, Liv? Nothing is alright. You were held hostage for three f*****g months. It’s not like you were on a goddamn vacation.”
“Listen to me,” I say, grabbing his hand. “There’s something you need to know.”
He starts the engine and pulls out of his parking spot. “Later.”
“Rob, I’m trying to tell you something important.”
“You can tell me once we get to safety,” he says.
I can’t explain it, but something isn’t right. A vague sense of foreboding is working its way up my spine.
“Rob, can you please pull over?”
“Liv, we don’t have the time for—”
“Make the damn time,” I snap. “Pull over now!”
He looks at me with alarm. He’s not used to me asserting myself this way. In fact, I’m not used to it, either.
