So while he may not like me much right now, I know my brother loves me and that’s something that will never change.
“I talked to the girl,” I tell him.
“What girl?”
It irks me that he sounds already annoyed with our conversation.
“The girl who asked you to contact me.”
“Uh huh.”
I can tell he’s distracted by something.
“Are you paying attention to me, Seven?”
“I’m working on something on my computer, but go ahead.”
“The girl is… she’s–”
“She’s what?”
I don’t really want to tell him because I know what he’ll say, but I didn’t initiate this phone call to just sit and not say anything. He’s the only one I can trust at this point to give me some perspective on the situation I’ve found myself in. He will give me his honest take on it, whether I like it or not. At least that’s what he used to do.
“She asked me to help her find her brother.”
“She wants your help?” he asks incredulously, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Did her brother skip bail or something?”
I get it.
I’m the black sheep of the family. The poor little rich kid who works as a bounty hunter when he doesn’t have to.
It’s beneath you, Bronx.
Come home.
What are you trying to prove?
You’re wasting your talents with that shit.
I’ve heard it all over the years. My entire family thinks that I’m lost and irreparably damaged, so I can see how it would be inconceivable of Seven to understand that I could actually help someone outside of my job or more importantly that I would.
“But this is the thing her brother is–”
“Who?”
“The one who sliced me.”
“Hold the goddamn phone. Are you telling me that the woman who called our parents’ house is the sister of that fucker?”
Now he’s paying attention.
“Yes.”
“What kind of games is she playing calling our house like that, and what does she mean that she wants you, of all people, to find him?”
“I don’t think she realizes who I am or what my connection is to him.”
“You’re sure about that?”
