Michael sighed, and rapped his hands on the steering wheel impatiently. Hereached across the passenger's seat to the glove compartment, tugging it ope....He reached in and pulled out a knife, long and sharp, with a wooden handle.It was a carving knife, taken from his own kitchen. It'd do. There was a balaclavain there, too. It was cliche, sure, but fuck it: it was cliche for a good reason. At 03:27, she left the nightclub. Michael practically fell over himself clamberingout of his car, desperate. ’ His voice was soft, and his tone almost casual. But it wasn’t quite casual….not quite. He was talking the way someone might talk to fool a casual listener into thinking it was a how’s-the-weather-fine-thank-you kind of conversation, when it was much more than that. She’d used that tone herself when fighting with her boyfriend at a restaurant just days prior, on the day when he’d dumped her, out of the blue, and for no reason. Surrounded by other diners, she’d used that tone, trying to hide. More

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