“I was thirteen, fourteen. In the system. No family, no money, no one who gave a shit how I spent my time. The Sinners were the first people who ever made me feel like I belonged somewhere.” His jaw works as he glares at the wall behind us, unable to meet our gazes. “They had a habit of recruiting out of foster care. Boys with nothing to lose make excellent errand runners.”
“What kind of errands?”
“The kind that got me arrested at fifteen.” He doesn’t flinch from Atticus’s stare. “I was two weeks from prospecting for full membership when a fight with some college kids at a gas station went sideways. Three of us got arrested. I was the youngest and the only one without priors, so I got sent to juvie instead of county jail.”
“You went to juvenile detention,” I say slowly. “I never knew that.”
“For almost a year.” Dom picks at the label on the water bottle. “Best thing that ever happened to me, which is a pretty damning statement about the available alternatives.” He pauses. “When I got out, I had nowhere to go. The Daniels family took me in.”
Something quiet and immense passes across his face.
“Being part of a real family changed me. Having people who actually gave a shit whether I came home.” He exhales. “I stayed clean. Stayed out. The Sinners left me alone because Judah’s father had enough local reputation that coming after me would’ve cost them more than I was worth.”
I stare at him.
Dom, who I’ve known since I was fifteen years old, never told me any of this.
The hurt is reflexive and immediate, a sharp thing behind my sternum. I know it isn’t rational. I kept my own secrets from him for a decade and have very little standing to feel betrayed by his. But knowing something is irrational and stopping yourself from feeling it are entirely different skills, and I have never been especially talented at the second one.
“But Judah knew?” The question comes out quieter than I intend.
Dom’s expression softens, as if he knows exactly the direction my thoughts are going. “Only a few years ago. I needed character references when I petitioned the judge to seal my juvenile record. He found out because I had to tell him.”
Atticus, who has been uncharacteristically silent, clears his throat. “If it’s been years, how do you know the Sinners are still using this salvage yard?”
“That location has never been raided, so the Sinners have to be thinking it’s still off the radar and close enough to hear that they don’t have to risk someone catching sight of Phoenix while they’re moving her.”
“That’s a significant assumption,” Atticus says. “If they’ve changed hideouts since you were fifteen, then we’ve wasted a bunch of time.”
“Or I’m right and we get Phoenix back before this situation completely devolves,” Dom declares, not aggressivebut absolute. “I just have a hunch. I can’t explain it. But I just know this is where they have her.”
“And how exactly are we supposed to get past the guards?” I ask.
Dom’s gaze slides past me to watch Judah approach after locking the door. “The guards will all be on the service road, but the salvage yard backs up to the waterfront. And we just happen to have the best boat captain in the state standing right here.”
FORTY-THREE
PHOENIX
I’ve been alonein the dark for at least a few hours, though the anxious part of my brain is convinced it’s been days.
I work my wrists against the rope again, testing the limits of my movement. The fibers bite into already-raw skin, but I feel something—the slightest loosening, maybe, or just wishful thinking. Hard to tell when you can’t see your own hands.
The sound of footsteps makes me freeze.
They’re not the confident stride of Aaron’s boots, thank God. These footsteps are hesitant, like whoever it is hasn’t quite committed to their approach.
The door opens into the darkness beyond with a scrape of metal. Then I hear the click of the switch on the worklamp and the storage container floods with enough light that it hits me like a dozen needles pushed directly into my corneas.
I flinch, blinking rapidly. By the time my vision clears enough to see, a figure has already stepped inside and pulled the door mostly shut behind them.
It’s the kid.
The nervous one from earlier—the young biker who wouldn’t meet my eyes while Aaron laid out his horrifying plans. Up close,he looks even younger than I initially thought. Maybe fifteen, sixteen-years-old at the most. His face is all sharp angles and bad skin, like he hasn’t quite finished growing into his features yet. The leather cut he’s wearing looks borrowed, too big in the shoulders.
He’s carrying a bottle of water and a gas station sandwich still wrapped in plastic.
We stare at each other across the dimly lit room.
