Hailey is not here for the show, she's here to find her Fathers' killer.
Harry is not here for the money, girls, adrenalin, or fame, his here to find his fiancés' killer.
It is Friday night, racers sitting behind highly fast sports car with engines revving are these young men staring each other down, their feet poised over the gas pedal, they anxiously await the sacred words: "Ready...steady...go!" The cars then dropped into gear, the pedals are slammed to the floor and the cars are quickly off, screeching their tires and sending up clouds of dust.
"He's dead." Harry whispered. "That's the idea."
"He's dead." He repeats. "I mean his eyes are separate from his sockets and his spleen is somewhere mixed in with his teeth. So yes."
"You killed him!" He points. "Don't point what if he's shy."
"Oh god he's dead." I smack my hand over my head. "And the award for best directive goes to Harry Styles."