“My car is this way.” He gestures to the left and we walk in silence under the setting sun. The scent of azaleas floats on the breeze, the bright pink blooms dotting the bushes that line the building. My fingers continually twist my watch around my wrist, my stomach feeling like a popcorn machine of nerves. “I’m worried,” I say, and he glances over at me, concern lining his face. “You’re too quiet. I haven’t known you long, but that can’t be good.” My words come out less joking than I want. It sounds like I’m worried he’s going to kill me, not that he’s simply up to something mischievous.
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