I stare at Knox, impatiently awaiting an answer. My heart thuds too fast for how casual I’m trying to look.
He keeps his gaze ahead, fingers flexing once against the steering wheel before settling again.
“Because I’m certified to carry it,” he says.
I frown, not satisfied.
“Okay. But why do you have it in your car?”
“Where else should it be?”
“Hidden at home? You know. Somewhere people can’t just… see it?”
He finally turns his head to look at me, that unreadable expression back in place.
The one that makes me feel like he’s dissecting me, deciding whether I’m someone who deserves answers or just another person he’ll keep at arm’s length.
“You stole my keys to get into my glove box,” he says. “You think I let people sit in my car by themselves?”
I feel my cheeks heat, guilt poolin
