Also, it was an oddly wordy message from her. Sydney used abbreviations in her messages every chance she got—she didn’t type anything out fully if she didn’t have to. He would have expected her to write,Where r u?Or even justWru?and leave him to figure it out on his own.
Maybe she was concerned about him, and wanted to make sure he understood her on his first read. Maybe she was dictating the words out loud into her phone and it translated her words properly.
The crowd around him laughed in unison at something that Penelope said. He texted back.
Birthday reception.
He braced himself after he sent it, waiting for her reprimand—that instead of being on a plane, he was still here and preparing to help Penelope escape with him.
Her reply came.
Okay.
Winter stopped, frowning down at his phone.
No sarcasm, no annoyance over why he was running around London. No comment on why his tracker was still broadcasting from the house.
But most of all, the wordOkayspelled perfectly out.
Sydney never wrote outOkay. She would have just sent the letterK.
Winter felt a shiver crawl down his spine. The image of Sydney faded from his mind like a puff of smoke. Nobody stood on the other side now except darkness. His hands tightened against the sides of his phone, and he tried to keep his breathing even.
What if the person sending him messages wasn’t Sydney?
That would only mean one thing.
Something had happened to her.
Around him, people let out a cheer as Penelope popped a bottle of champagne and laughed as she poured it over an elaborate tower of glasses. Still no Connor Doherty present.
Winter had felt the buzz of danger back when Sauda had ushered him into that car after his concert—but this time, the buzz was real. It traveled to his hands and down his spine, sending rivulets of heat through him. Something was unraveling.
Whoever it was on Sydney’s phone wanted him to stay.
He needed to get out of here.
There was a storm on the horizon—he could see the edge of dark clouds slicing right behind London’s cityscape beyond the garden,spilling darkness across a beautiful afternoon sky, hinting at the downpour that would come later. The sensation churning in Winter’s head now reminded him of the night when he’d heard his mother’s broken conversation downstairs, when they’d first learned of Artie’s death. His head filled with fog. He had the strange feeling that he wasn’t even here.
He didn’t care about the failed mission anymore.
All he could think about was Sydney.
She must have gotten caught.
I should have gone with her.
Then, through the blur of his thoughts, he saw Penelope look in his direction. She still looked shaken, but she gestured for him to step forward.
“—to the boy who helped make this celebration one for the history books!” she said now as Winter reached her. “And one who certainly needs no introduction.”
The crowd around them screamed their approval. Penelope handed Winter the microphone, and he took it, fighting to contain his composure. Minutes after this, he was supposed to lead Penelope off the main floor and, as the crowd gathered around the cake, take her down the garden’s hedge maze and away into a cab heading for the airport.
But something had happened to Sydney.
He forced a smile onto his face. His gaze swept out at the audience, seeing a thousand faces and unable to hang on to any of them. Everyone looked like a suspect.
Then Penelope’s eyes flickered to the crowd, just for a second.
