Sinclair

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Salvation

TIMOTHÉE RETURNS RIGHT as I'm nodding off. Sinclair and I have taken our escapades from my living room couch, to the kitchen counter, to the wall of my hallway and have ended up in my bedroom. During one of our breaks—I've lost count of which break it was—Sinclair got a call back all about Serena. Turns out my intuition was indeed correct. The picture of the guy she showed us was her child's father and her ex-fiancé. A high roller the next town over, his record was virtually squeaky clean. Even the guys Sinclair put on to do research about him couldn't find anything on him. 

After Sinclair hung up the phone from that call, he'd looked right at me and said, "Yeah, she needs protecting, alright."

"I agree, but what makes you think so?"

He had narrowed his eyes. "A man running for mayor in Red Lake, the second largest county in North Carolina, has nothing dirty on him. Not even a speeding ticket, yet his fiancée comes running to you for help. He's a dirty bastard, and worse because he's careful."

He said nothing I disagreed with.

In the present, I'm only aware that Timothée is back because I feel Sinclair shift to get out of bed and it startles me out of my half-sleep state. I watch him get throw on a pair of sweatpants, staring at him uncomprehendingly, mind still fogged over from my close brush with sleep. He glances over at me, a smile quirking at his lips.

"Timothée's on his way back. Go back to sleep."

He doesn't have to tell me because I'm already nodding off again.

***

When I wake, the room is still dark and Sinclair is gone. A single glance over to my bedroom door shows light spilling through the cracks. I can hear voices—Sinclair's and Timothée's—speaking quietly to one another. 

I shift over and grab the first shirt I find—Sinclair's—and throw it on. Luckily, it's big enough that it practically goes to my knees. When I'm at my bedroom door, ready to twist the knob, I hear the tone of Sinclair's voice and my hand pauses, hovering. I've heard him sound the way he's sounding before, when he was speaking of Timothée before. I suddenly get the feeling I shouldn't go out to them right now, and when I register what Sinclair is saying, I know I'm right.

"...didn't want any of that for you," he's saying, his voice anguished. "If I had known that you were still...of course I would have...I would have found you."

It's quiet for a moment and then Timothée asks, "How did you think I was dead? Ever since Freyja told me you assumed I was dead for fifteen years, I always wondered...how?"

"Well...after that...bastard did that to you..." Sinclair's voice is so low and raw, it's almost close to a growl. He takes a breath to steady himself. "I asked our mother where you were, and she told me they had already taken your body and gotten rid of it. Looking back on it now, there were a lot of inconsistencies. She was high at the time of telling me and I never thought to wonder where she'd gotten the drugs from or why she was so nonchalant over...what happened. Mother was the best parent or the kindest, but even she wouldn't just be okay with hiding your murder. But at the time...I really thought...I thought you were gone." His voice breaks a little at that last part and my heart twists painfully in my chest at the sound of it.

"But since we're talking about it...we never got around to you telling me everything that did happen." Sinclair is speaking more carefully than I've ever heard him, haltingly, as if he's afraid even the tiniest slip might hurt his brother. "I'd like to hear about it if you're okay with telling me."

The briefest of pauses pass and when it's gone, Timothée speaks. He's speaking in French, though, so I can't understand a word of it. I back away from the door, slipping back under the covers, deciding it's best to leave them be.