I TRY TO speak again, but no words are coming out, and even though I'm realizing it's helpless, I keep trying. Because I can't believe the man sitting gripping my arm and ushering me with a gentle yet firm hand is him.
The boy Sinclair had missed all this time. The boy Sinclair had cried over. The boy whose death had affected Sinclair so deeply, he used to get drunk just so he could forget the pain of his loss.
Timothée.
My surprise over my unexpected kidnapper makes my body easier to coerce into the back of Lucky's car. It's not until I'm in the back, Timothée is beside me and we're pulling off, that I fully realize my situation.
"Where exactly are you planning on taking me?" I demand, trying to keep my voice firm.
Lucky—Timothée—look down at me, and when he does, I can see Sinclair
