SINCLAIR HAS A DANGEROUS look in his eyes as he barks orders at the guys who he has watching over my house. It's the next morning and we're officially welcoming November as Sinclair gives the guys their orders. I can't understand him since he's speaking French—something he really only does when he's extremely agitated—but from the fire in his eyes and the way his jaw clenches, I imagine it has something to do with last night.
After the little boy had handed me the note with the cryptic message scrawled across the paper in messy handwriting, I'd barely had time to process it before Sinclair had snatched the note from my hands, reading it himself. I had the opportunity to watch as his expression went from curious to murderous and, in what seemed like a nanosecond, he was storming out of my
