“Are you here to work on the bike?” I ask. “Rick’s not here. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. I was just looking for something, but it doesn’t seem to be out here, so I should probably go. Get out of your hair.” Three things happen at once. I realize there’s no bike in the garage anymore, Ian steps into the light and I notice, for the first time, that hair-raising, cold fury has engulfed his green eyes. And he’s clutching a pocket knife in his left hand.
POPPY!!!!!!!! 👁👄👁
