Sinclair is about to empty the gun of bullets, when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
With a brief glance at me—coughing on the ground and clambering to my feet—he pulls it out and taps the screen.
“Shit,” I grumble, straightening up. “I think I broke my back.”
“Where’s your phone?” Sinclair asks carefully as he pockets his.
Something about the change in tone has me stiffening, and I eye him for a second before darting to the car to retrieve my phone, but he anticipates my move and tackles me.
“What the fuck?” I shove him off me, but he launches himself at my back and we wrestle for reasons I can’t fucking figure out.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I growl, refraining from punching him in the face as we roll into the ditch. “Ow, fuck! What the hell are we doing, Sinclair?”
Shoving off me, he jumps to his feet and runs for the car. Confused as hell, I pop my head up from the ditch, watching him grab my phone from the passenger seat.
He tosses it to the ground and stomps on it, looking as frazzled as I am.
I climb out of the ditch, dirt and sticks stuck in my hair, and throw my hands out. “What was that for?”
Sinclair’s attention lands on me, and he does a double take as though he forgot I was here. Then he walks closer, hesitantly, peering into the distance. “I need you to listen to me carefully.”
Frowning and out of breath, I wait for him to continue while he rests his hands on his hips. When he doesn’t, I gesture impatiently, “Yes?”
“You can’t freak out. Something bad has happened. Something really fucking bad?—”
My eyes widen, but before I can storm back to the car, he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Darian, I need your head in the game. Okay? You’re not thinking straight.”
Releasing me, he removes his phone from his pocket and makes a few calls. Meanwhile, I eye the cell with my nerves on fire, debating if I should steal it from him to see what he’s hiding. But maybe he’s right. I’m already volatile. I need to keep my head on, and I’m already doing a piss poor job of that.
“What happened to a plan of attack?” I ask when he hangs up.
With his chin on his chest, he rubs his eyes, his other hand on his hip. “Time’s up.”
When he looks at me, I feel my face drain of color. He breaks eye contact, strides to the Bugatti, and leans back on the hood. Shoulders slumped, he hangs his head in defeat.
Is Cecilia dead? Is that what he’s not telling me?
Fear, unlike anything I’ve experienced, sinks its hooks inside me, and the anger from earlier drains away until I’m as tired and broken as Sinclair.
I cross the road and sit beside him, staring into the distance beyond my car and the tire marks on the asphalt. A cawing bird disturbs the silence, taking flight from a nearby tree.
“I know I said it before,” Sinclair says, watching it circle above. “There’s no going back—not for you or me.”
“You don’t have to come along. This is my fight,” I reply with a heavy breath. He looks away from the sky and studies my face, then he wraps his arm around my shoulder and points a finger at the approaching blacked-out Range Rovers. “Here comes the cavalry.”
They park up behind my car, and Elijah opens the driver’s door and steps down on the cracked road, his signature smirk revealing the dimple on his cheek. “Let’s get your woman back, Delacroix.”
It wasn’tsafe to park too close to the warehouse, so we parked farther down the road, close enough that we could make a hasty escape, but far enough away not to draw attention.
I look out behind the tall trees, relieved when the desolate warehouse appears, the metal rusty after years of neglect. Tuftsof dry, yellow grass line the building, and tall fir trees stand guard around the abandoned structure.
I share a terse look with Sinclair. Behind us, we hear sticks snapping as Elijah approaches, dressed in all black. “Something is wrong,” he says.
His father nods and studies the building.
“It’s too quiet,” I reply, noting the absence of cars.
“Come on,” Sinclair says as he sets off walking, and we follow behind.
