Edward
I had driven many things in my life. Dad's G-Wagon when I was seventeen and not supposed to. Pa's tiny little Fiat in Moscow that he loved more than his children. A speedboat in Mykonos that I immediately crashed into a dock. My absurd Lamborghini that made my back hurt.
I had never, ever, felt as close to death as I did driving Connor's M5 — well, more like Melanie's, because she drove it all the time and left three different lip glosses and a half-eaten packet of crisps in the door pocket — from Edinburgh to Denny's with Connor and Melanie in it.
We were supposed to take the helicopter back to Ashford. That was the plan. Quick, clean, twenty-five minutes, no traffic, Connor could sulk beautifully while looking out at the clouds.
But Connor woke up that morning, still in that murderous, tense, shoulders-to-his-ears mood, and said he wanted to see Catydid, Denny and baby Elizabeth before we left. Which was fair. That was my Connor.
