Sinclair

THE CAR COMES to a stop, and when I look out the window, we're back where we had started: in that same little warehouse area from before. Timothée is standing curbside, waiting for us like he had been before. I can't really see his face, and from what I can see, it's as smooth and as expressionless as it had been when we left; if he had heard what this man had said, it doesn't show on his face.

"You'll only have to wait here a little longer," Sinclair's father is saying, checking his watch. "My son has been up in arms trying to find you. He's been tearing Willow's Creek apart. He'll be here soon enough."

I want to ask a lot of different things and among them, I want to ask whether or not Mom and Odin know what's going on. I hope Mom isn't panicking, I pray that she isn't thinking the worst.

The car door opens and there is Timothée, holding it open for me to exit. I do so eagerly. Sinclair's father doesn't say another word as I hop out, his face is covered in agitation and he looks like he's in some kind of a rush.

Once the car has peeled away, I take a deep breath and sag against the brick wall for support. I barely even register the cool, hard substance beneath my frozen fingertips as I breathe in and out, trying to grasp my bearings. Timothée stands beside me but he says nothing. He just lets me get my shit together.

I turn so that my back is against the brick wall and stare up at the grey sky. The snow has stopped now and enough of it hasn't fallen for new snow to stick, so the ground is covered in last night's snowfall which is encased in ice.

"Did you...?"

"Hear everything? I did."

I look over at him and I see he is staring at the grey sky just like I was doing, his expression far away. I feel for him. It's not easy to find out the person who raised you is a monster. It can't be. I wonder what he's feeling right now; a complicated blob of emotion most likely.

"I'm sorry," is all I can say. Even if Sinclair's father was a liar and an all around terrible person, I find myself wishing he had been...remorseful, at the very least. But for him to have not even a shred of regret for what he's done is probably the worst thing of all. For someone to knowingly hurt you and not even give a damn hurts.

I know that from experience.

Timothée blows out a sigh, his breath steaming in the cold. "Don't be," he says. "I already knew, I think. Deep down. I just didn't want to admit it. I didn't want to admit that the person who had saved me, the person who raised me and taught me everything I know..." He swallowed hard. "I didn't want to believe he could hurt me. That he could lie to me."

His posture is slumped, defeated. And again, I'm reminded of Odin and I'm unable to stop myself from patting the top of his head.

"It'll be okay," I say.

He let out a humorless chuckle. "What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because your brother is waiting for you," I say. "The two of you can work this out together."

After a while of silence, Timothée stretches himself up to his full height and blows out a large sigh. My hand can no longer remain on his head anymore, so I let it drop to my side.

"You seem quite sure that things will be able to be like they were," he murmurs.

"They won't be like they were," I respond. "But as long as I can get you two together again, as long as Sinclair has you back in his life, things can be better. His life will be better."

Timothée ponders those words for a moment. "Why are you so insistent on reuniting the two of us? I mean, I understand talking to me and trying to get me to understand that what I was told from the very beginning was a lie. But you even went as far as wearing a wire to prove the truth to me..." He trails off.

"I saw how losing you hurt him," I say. "I know how getting you back will make him happy. Happier than anything else in the world."

Timothée swallows. "Do you think he'll really be happy seeing me? After everything...even knowing that I—"

"Pardon my interruption, but I don't think Sinclair will give a single fuck about anything else, Timothée."

Timothée looks like he wants to laugh, but instead, he pushes out another sigh. The two of us stand side by side for a long while, staring up at the grey sky. Snowfall begins coming down again, and when the wind starts acting up, Timothée pushes up off the wall and looks down at me.

"Well, come on, then."

I blink at him at his back as he walks away for a moment before I sprint to catch up with him.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you back."

"You're taking me..." It dawns on me what he means, and then my heart feels like it's flying. "Really? You're...But won't that...Won't you...Won't he...?"

Timothée turns back to look at me and this time the look on his face is one-hundred percent amusement. "Has anyone ever told you that you should organize your thoughts?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm surprised, you little shit, of course my thoughts are all over the place. Mostly, I'm wondering how you plan to get me out of here. Aren't there a bunch of other guys here, helping you keep an eye on me?"

"There are," Timothée says, fishing a pair of keys out of his coat pocket.

"So, how are you gonna...?"

He starts walking again, and—confused and curious—I have no other choice but to follow him. 

**This chapter is a very brief one, I know. I was sick AGAIN. Anyway, things really pop off next chapter. I've got things in store for you guys *evil laugh*. Thanks for all the well wishes you guys have sent me in regards to my health. I really appreciate it. See you next Thursday!**