Silence again. I kept my eyes focused on the road in front of me. We were going against the usual rush-hour madness. I got lucky with the traffic. We were off the 405 in twelve minutes. I glanced several times into the rearview. My passenger was fighting hard to maintain calm as well.

‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

‘You can call me Elise. And no, I am not all right.’

She was close to tears now and I could see she had shut her eyes. She took several steadying breaths. We were now in the back streets of Westwood, moments away from her apartment.

‘You’re nearly home,’ I told her, wanting to reassure her.

She opened her eyes.

‘It’s Brendan, yes?’

I nodded.

‘And this number – 646 555 9479 – that’s your cell … if I need to contact you?’

I nodded again, thinking: don’t contact me again.

I pulled up in front of 1710 Malcolm Avenue.

‘You won’t be paid for this trip, will you?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said, knowing that because of all that went down I’d lost that big airport fare. The ride probably complained to Uber and that might be a strike against me. I just wanted to go home, to close the door and sit in the dark and try to get all this out of my head – which I also knew just would not happen. Just as I told myself: if you lose today’s driving you will be $100 short. My monthly car insurance payment of $58 was due next week. I had no choice but to somehow keep on the road.

I braked slowly. I shifted into park. Elise reached into her bag. She pulled out a small wad of money.

‘Please take this,’ she said, pushing it all into my hand.

‘You don’t have to,’ I said.

‘Yes, I do. And thank you. Take care.’