“He doesn’t know anything.” That’s not Akara. Oscar Highland-Oliveira has pushed into the cluster of bodyguards. Severity edges his assertive posture. “You can’t be sure of that,” Price shoots back. “I legitimately can,” Oscar retorts, rain droplets slipping down his golden-brown skin and stubbled jaw. Curly pieces of his brown hair are wet against his forehead, and he’s squinting through the storm. “Because if Donnelly knew where Luna was, he wouldn’t be standing here listening to you. He’d already be gone.”
