Friday took corners at sixty miles an hour, skidding, throwing Harry against the passenger door.
Harry slumped in his seat.
“We’re going … where?” Harry asked.
Friday turned left onto McKinley Avenue, skirting the park, the shortcut to Longmeadow.
“Turn the car around,” Harry said.
Friday ignored him.
“I’m not going to Cotton’s,” Harry said.
“I tried Rossiter,” Friday said. “He didn’t pick up.”
“Turn the fucking car around,” Harry said.
Friday looked at Harry, her mouth open, her eyes stinging.
“Harry…?” Friday said.
“Turn the car around,” Harry repeated.
“You sound like Phil,” Friday said.
He looked away from her, out the passenger-side window.
“Cotton kills this guy Pillette,” Harry said. “I get locked in the loony bin. And you don’t like the way I sound. Am I missing something here?”
“Yes,” Friday said. Softly. “I think you are.”