The drive back to the estate was the longest forty-five minutes of my life.
My mother rode in the backseat with Matt, their knees touching, his hand resting on her thigh like they were on a date instead of being driven to their estranged daughter's house under the watchful eye of a French mercenary.
Geneviève drove. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the city blur past.
No one spoke.
I could feel my mother's eyes on the back of my head. Scanning. Cataloging. Taking in the leather seats, the tinted windows, the way Geneviève handled the car like she had stolen it and was daring someone to try and take it back.
"So," my mother said finally, her voice too bright. "Nice car."
No one answered.
"Does Adrian have more than one? I bet he does. Men like that always have a collection."
Geneviève's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. I kept my eyes on the road.
Matt cleared his throat. "This is a nice neighborhood. Very... secure."
