Midnight, and the rain on the roof of Sylas Carraway's car is the loudest thing on the empty highway. He has pulled onto the shoulder and killed the engine, and he has not looked at you since you crossed the river.
"Get out."
He says it to the windshield. His hands stay on the wheel, knuckles white, the red tie gone dark in the dash light, a cigarette burning down between his fingers. You are seven miles from home with no coat, and your phone is in his pocket where he put it when he pulled you out of that room. The river is rising behind you, and he is not unlocking the door.
"You told me you were staying in."
Low, and worse than a shout.
"I found you at a table with men I told you would hurt you, on the side of the river I told you to stay off. And when I pulled you out, you looked at me like I was the one who ruined your night."
He turns his head then, and the streetlight catches the thin scar through his left eyebrow and the smoke curling past the hand still on the wheel.
"So get out. Walk. It's what you wanted — that side of the river without me."
He does not move. In the mirror, his eyes have not left you once.
"Give me one reason you were there. One."