“Where are you headed, Mr. Cross?” Vance asked. “Home,” Liam said. “Late shift at the shop.” His jacket carried a garage logo. His hands were rough, nails dark with grease. On the surface, he matched the life he described.
Vance handed the documents back, but didn’t step away. The compass keychain caught his eye again. “Where did you get that?” he asked, nodding toward the dashboard. Liam’s fingers twitched on the steering wheel.