A fine, cold drizzle was falling the day Trisha arrived in Paris.
Four months pregnant, she allowed herself to be escorted away by the police at the airport, assuming they were taking her to see Thomas.
That assumption lasted until she was pushed into a detention holding area and came face-to-face with a pair of bloodshot eyes glaring at her from behind iron bars.
Thomas wore a prison uniform. A rough beard covered his jaw, and exhaustion had hollowed out his features.
His gaze settled first on her swollen stomach before slowly lifting to her face.
"Thomas?" Trisha's voice trembled. Gripping the bars, she asked anxiously, "What's going on? How did you end up here?"
Thomas raised his head and laughed. The sound was hoarse, broken, and unpleasant.
"How many months?" he asked quietly.
