Then I remember the hotel. An absurdly expensive place downtown where Knox once hid out from something, and complained that the security in the lobby made getting to his room an ordeal.
There’s private underground parking, cameras everywhere, armed guards at all entrances.
The place is apparently the first choice of politicians, athletes and VIPs, so I know it’s top-of-the-line. It’s perfect.
I’ve blown hundreds of dollars on lingerie that I may never get to use now, so what’s another couple of thousand on a hotel room with armed guards in the lobby?
The thought is so bitterly ridiculous that I almost smile.
Almost.
The city grows brighter as I head downtown, but inside the car everything feels dark and compressed, my thoughts circling the same ugly truth:
I thought Locke would ha
