Chapter 203

• The next morning, Chloe and I were in her tiny, beat-up car—windows down, hair whipping in the wind like we were in a rebellious coming-of-age movie, minus the soundtrack and with way more unresolved trauma.
• She had insisted on driving, blasting Beyoncé like we were heading to a brunch spot instead of a correctional facility.
• I tried to match her energy, even tapped my fingers to the beat, but my eyes kept darting to the side mirrors.