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Chapter 9

The windshield wipers were going full tilt, fighting the onslaught of rain that finally broke the oppressive summer heat wave in the south of Scotland. Charlie sat in the car next to Sinclair as they made their way down the M80 to Glasgow. She had spent the night in the infirmary, glad not to have spent it with Sin, unsure what he would expect. Dr. Forbes had cleaned her wound and removed the bandages, covering it in a thin sheet of medical cling form so it could begin to heal. Scarification, as he called it, involved the intentional scratching, etching or cutting of skin into designs, pictures or words, for permanent body modification. The process usually took time to heal as scarring agents were rubbed into the wound to irritate it, promoting the overall effect. That was not the case for her. She neither wanted nor asked for the crest on her stomach. In fact, memory of the painful experience still made her nauseous just thinking about it. But memories of safety and calm came with it, tying her to Sokolov in a twisted beauty. She pushed the thought down. At this point, she just needed to keep it clean and hoped it scabbed over soon without infection. Sin had brought her a loose-fitting dress to wear along with a pair of black riding boots. Not the most fashionable attire, but she was glad to be out of the hospital gown, and the dress didn't bind her stomach.

They hadn't spoken since they got in the car and Charlie had questions. He owed her that. "Where are we going?"

"There's an agent in Glasgow who has the paperwork for us to sign. Gabriel will witness it and then file it with the right agencies."

"What does Alex have over you that makes you obey him?"

Sin shook his head. "You don't mince words, do you?"

"It would be pointless now," she said. "I have nothing. I just want Imogen to be safe."

"Aye, I suppose you're right."

"So? What is it?"

He gave her a sideways glance before turning his attention to the road. "I graduated from The Glasgow School of Art. While I was there, I became involved with a group of lads. You can say what we did wasn't exactly on the up and up. I borrowed masterpieces from museums and created a forgery to sell on the black market. My own works weren't selling, and it was an easy way to make money, a lot of it. It wasn't long before I was caught. I was facing a significant amount of time in prison. So, my mother called my father and he got a deal cut for me. I signed my life over to McKay and The Watch with the promise I would never touch a charcoal pencil or paintbrush again. Instead, I assassinate people. I truly live up to my name Sin."

"Borrowed? Interesting choice of words." She knew nothing about this man who was now her husband, but it did explain the canvases she found in the cottage. "Art thief, forgery, assassination, secret organizations. It's a lot to swallow."

"I returned them eventually," he said. "The art-work."

"Jesus Christ." A lump had formed in her stomach. This was more than she could handle but what other choice did she have? Survive, that was her goal. She pressed on her stomach, hoping for the feeling of calm but only pain radiated from it. "McKay, I heard you say it as part of your name when we said our, um, vows. Is Alex a relation?"

"Aye. He's my uncle. On my father's side." He glanced at her quickly as if gauging her reaction.

"But your last name is Stuart."

He nodded. "My mother never named a father on my birth certificate. Stuart is her last name. So technically, I'm a bastard."

"But you said your mother called your father for help when you were caught."

"Aye. I didn't grow up knowing my father. I never found all this out until I was caught." His hands tensed on the steering wheel. "It's Jock."

"Jock is your father?"

"Aye, John Sinclair McKay."

She couldn't miss the bitterness in his voice. "Did he know? That you were his son?"

"Not at first. By the time he figured it out, he was married to the love of his life. They couldn't have children and he didn't have the heart to tell her. I was just the boy who came every summer to the cottage."

"I can't imagine that was easy to learn. To find out that your summer neighbor was your father all along."

He rubbed his brow. "No. No, it wasn't. And on top of it, I now owed him and his brother my life."

Glasgow's skyline came into view, a breathtaking mix of industry and art nouveau architecture. "I'm sorry, Sinclair."

He reached out and covered her hand with his. "Don't be. Family can be difficult."

If he was giving her a place to talk about her family, she wasn't ready. It was still too raw, like the cutting on her stomach, damaging and distressing, it needed time to heal and there was no endorphin rush to kill the pain. No guidance from Sokolov. "I suppose so," she said, but tears filled her eyes. She looked out the window, hoping to hide them.

"You're the first person I've ever shared this with." He gave her hand a squeeze. "For six years, I've remained silent."

They exited the highway on Craighall Road and took it until it became Saracen Street. Pulling off on a side street, they parked in front of an old tenement building. Charlie looked around. The whole area looked neglected and abandoned.

"Stay close," Sin said, getting out of the car. He came around to help her, but she was already out and waiting for him on the cracked pavement, with William standing next to her. He took her hand, holding it tighter than was necessary, and led her through the front entrance. The front foyer was in shambles, dirty stained carpet lined the floors and the ceiling was missing several tiles. Those that remained were cracked and broken. Someone had left a trash bin in the corner and used take out containers and beer cans spilled out the top. There was a sign on the lift, broke. "We'll have to take the stairs."

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