Sarah sat in his car and snooped around until he returned. His car was remarkably clean, she thought. Hers was always cluttered by comparison. There was almost nothing in his glove box—just a metal box of bandages and his registration and insurance. He had a small sleeve of CDs below the stereo console. It seemed an even split between classic rock and classic jazz and blues. All of it was old—those albums had all come out before Frank was born.
She hastily closed the leather case and put it away when she saw him returning with her purse. Frank slid into the driver's seat and handed her purse to her.
"Should I drive you to your apartment, or your parents' house?" he asked.
"My apartment is closer," she said. She told him where she lived. He nodded and started the engine.
Frank caught th
