He was never sure. Just as he was never sure whether his mother would remember he existed, or when she might fail to take her medications, or if she was proud of his successes, or whether she loved him.
Just as he was never sure why his brother had to be the one who died.
Ah, Winter,Artie had once told him gently after a failed audition.You don’t have to be famous to matter.
But Winter didn’t know how to matter without being famous.
Artie had given his life for something that made the world better. What was Winter giving?
Suddenly he couldn’t stand it anymore. The high from the concert had dissipated, leaving only exhaustion. The restlessness that always roamed inside him ached now, pulling forever toward some unattainable version of himself that was a better person than who he currently was.
If he could just reach it, he would be worthwhile. He would be happy.
But he couldn’t. So all he wanted to do was flee to a hotel room. Maybe he’d bail on dinner with the boys, too. Claire had said ten minutes, but he looked at the clock on the wall.
“Five minutes,” he muttered.
Long enough. Knowing her, the cars were probably early and ready for him anyway. He straightened and ran a hand through his messy hair. Then he headed out into the hall and away from the arena stage.
His bodyguards hadn’t come for him yet; maybe it was too early, and they were all waiting somewhere near the back entrance. He walked alone down the corridor until he reached the small, nondescript side door leading to the back.
Winter stepped out into the cool, wet night. His sight settled immediately on a sleek black SUV waiting right at the entrance. As he walked toward it, the car’s door opened automatically for him, revealing a plush interior.
Winter let out a small sigh of gratitude as he slid inside. Claire must have upgraded the cars during the concert. This one had tinted windows that were currently playing some soothing video of an ocean scene, a feature that his other car definitely didn’t have, and new leather seats that were already heated to a cozy temperature.
The door closed automatically behind him, sealing him in. Then the car pulled away.
That was when he realized something wasn’t right. The woman sitting in the shadows beside him wasn’t Claire. And the driver wasn’t someone he recognized, either.
Winter blinked. “Is this the wrong car?” he asked.
“It’s exactly the right car,” the woman answered.
And in that moment, Winter realized he was being kidnapped.
2
Those That Walk in the World’s Shadows
It took another second for Winter to convince himself that he wasn’t jumping to conclusions. He’d rushed into plenty of black SUVs before where he didn’t recognize the driver or had to speed off for some reason or other. Claire didn’t always have time to tell him everything, and over the years, he’d simply learned to get in first and ask questions later.
Maybe there was an explanation here, too.
But something about this driver and woman dressed in impeccable suits seemed different. Winter felt his sixth sense prickling the hairs on the back of his neck.
“Are we heading back to the hotel?” he asked them.
They didn’t answer. The serene ocean videos continued to play on the windows, giving him the illusion of driving along a Mediterranean coast. Only the front window stayed clear. They were driving toward the wrong exit.
“Stop the car, please,” Winter said instead.
No answer.
Now he knew he was in trouble. No driver of his had ever, in his entire life, not done what he asked. But the driver kept going, his gaze fixated on the gates at the far end of the stadium lot. The man’s brows were so dark and intense that they looked like they might smother his eyes entirely.
“Stop the car,” Winter said again, sterner this time. “And let me out immediately.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Mr. Young,” he said over his shoulder. Streetlight outlined the scruff of his short beard.
