Mark had been a ghost during the thirty-minute drive. Ordinarily, he would fill the silence with grievances—complaining about the Colts’ offensive line, the fluctuating gas prices, or the never-ending construction on Interstate 69. Today, he was a statue. His eyes were locked dead ahead, staring through the windshield at nothing. His knuckles were white, his fingers drumming an erratic, nervous rhythm against the steering wheel. Every sixty seconds, his gaze flicked to the dashboard clock.
“Are you okay?” I had finally murmured, the silence becoming too thick to breathe in.
He jolted, forcing a practiced veneer of a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Just drained. Long week.”
The excuse was flimsy. Mark wasn’t tired; he was practically vibrating with a suffocating, suppressed panic. As we stepped out of the car, the autumn wind bit through my sweater, but it was nothing compared to the sudden chill radiating from the man walking beside me. I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to walk into my own execution
