Chapter 43: Strangers

“You know those things will kill you, right?”

Rhys Cullen stared challengingly at his friend, took a long, exaggerated drag on his Players Medium, and blew the smoke into his face. “Good. Me soul was dead long ago,” he quipped.

As Rusty Davis drove the rented Ford Focus down the highway, he fought down the urge to punch his partner in the head. They’d flown from Los Angeles and rented the car in Vancouver.

“How much longer? Me arse went to sleep an hour ago,” grouched Rhys Cullen.

“It won’t be long now. See?” Rusty Davis pointed to the sign. Elliott Lake, 10 km.

“And you know the name of the rehab center where she’s staying?”

Rusty shrugged. “It’s a small place. How many could there be?”