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She gulps. “How can you tell?”
Because I know the size and shape of my brother. I also know this man well. Quite well.
That kind of thing happens when you spend ten years torturing someone in your dungeon.
I see the scars all over his arms and neck. It doesn’t matter that the man’s face has been bashed in, unrecognizably crushed.
I’d recognize Pietro Volandri anywhere.
“Adrik?” Emery whispers. Her voice echoes in the silence.
Just as I open my mouth to respond, I hear the distant shrill of police sirens. And then the last puzzle piece clicks into place.
“I’m being framed.”
