Roxie Sterling

The SUV's tires rumbled against the asphalt of the West Side Highway, the sound beneath my feet like a countdown.

Outside the tinted windows, dawn was breaking over Manhattan, casting a weak gray light over the rain-soaked streets. The storm was fading, leaving a thin mist over the city. But inside the SUV, the air still carried the sharp smell of gunpowder, expensive leather, and Garrison's overwhelming presence.

I sat back against the leather seat, no longer curled up with my knees against my chest. For the first time in forty-eight hours, I could finally breathe without the weight of our supposed blood ties pressing down on me....