Knox
The leather interior of Cain’s SUV is cold, but I don’t turn on the engine. Engine noise draws eyes, and out here on the curb three doors down from the glass-and-steel high-rise palace where Zara is playing house that prick Locke, eyes are the last thing I need.
I light a cigarette, letting the tip glow orange in the dark, and blow a thin stream of smoke against the frost-coated windshield. Through the cleared circle where the defroster died an hour ago, I have a perfect view of the penthouse entrance.
I sit here a lot. Three, sometimes four nights a week, much to Becca’s never-ending f*****g whining irritation. Watching the lights on the top floor. Watching Locke’s motorcycle pull into the subterranean garage. Watching Zara shadow and form move through the floor-to-ceiling glass,
