I grab the bars with both hands and start tugging. It’s useless—they’re too heavy—but the mama bear in me won’t hear it. I keep trying to pry the ugly things off the ground, screaming my lungs off in the process. “WHERE’S MY DAUGHTER?”
May. I’d recognize her voice anywhere. “Who’s there?” I snarl. “Show yourself!”
But she isn’t alone. There’s a man holding her, and as he steps out of the shadows, I give a huge sigh of relief. My baby’s docile in his arms, the tiniest frown on her little face from the distress in my tone. But otherwise, she looks perfectly content where she is. And why wouldn’t she be?
After all, she’s in her uncle’s arms.
“Yuri.” It’s such a familiar sight that, for a second, the prison bars disappear. Like we’re back at the motel in Jersey. “What’s going on?”
But som
