WHEN THE STORM starts dying down and Sonny gets the okay from Sinclair, he drives me home using one of the trucks kept in the garage. Sonny is uncharacteristically quiet for the entire drive, his body tensed like he’s expected the Blood Kings to roll up next to us and attempt a drive-by.
“You’ll be fine,” Sonny promised me as I was getting out. “You don’t have any obvious connections with us. I'll have someone bring your car back. It'll be in your parking lot by tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks.” I started to get out and then hesitated. I turned back to him. “Is Sinclair...okay?”
Sonny looked conflicted. I felt like I could hear him wondering what was and wasn’t okay to tell me.
“He’s fine,” was all he finally said.
And I wanted to know more. I wanted to demand that he tell me more.
