The boy stared at the policeman’s tattoo. “My dad had the same one,” he said—and the officer went rigid.

His eyes were locked on Bastien’s right forearm.

“Sir,” the boy said softly, almost reverently, “my dad had the same one.”

The child lifted a finger and pointed directly at the Breton triskelion tattoo etched into Bastien’s skin.

Bastien felt his chest tighten.

That symbol wasn’t common. It wasn’t trendy. And in his entire life, he had only known one other person who carried that exact mark.

His twin brother.