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“How far back are they?” I asked my hostage.

He didn’t respond. He was slack with shock and crushed into the corner of his seat, as far away from me as he could get. He stared through the windshield, right hand braced against the door. Pale skin, long fingers—fingers stained from paint. An artist’s fingers.

“How far back?” I asked again. The engine roared in my ears.

“You killed them,” he said, “You just killed them.”