Nino’s words crashed into the damp cave air like a block of ice. The painting’s only missing the background—the implication curdled Scarlett’s stomach, and she could barely hold Louise in her arms.
Liam’s hand, frozen mid-air, slowly dropped to his side. He stared at the huddled form of Nino, the boy’s face buried in his knees, his small shoulders twitching slightly. It was not the shake of crying, but the hollow numbness of someone who had surrendered to despair, who had given up all struggle. There was no use reasoning with a person who believed his death was already upon him.
“That path,” Liam turned to the pitch-black crevice Nino had pointed to, his voice low and pragmatic, “what is the ‘whistle’? Where exactly is it?”
Nino did not lift his head, his muffled voice drifting from bet
