Truth Be Told (Blackbridge Security 4)

Chapter 7

Ignacio

Although I gave the testing facility permission to text the results, it seems like too big a piece of news to share via two short sentences and a secure link.

Even still, I spend the next couple of minutes entering my information to create my one-time use account to get the news I already know in my heart.

Wren: I’m here if you need someone to talk to.

The text rolls from the top of my screen, and of course that fucker would know before I do. He’s probably been back in St. Louis tracking every dime I spend and using a tracking device to make sure I’m not camped outside of her house or Alex’s school like a psycho. Well, not really a psycho, I guess. Both Deacon and his right-hand man Flynn pulled that shit, and it ended happily for both of them, but they don’t have a hidden damn-near teenager to contend with either.

Me: Thanks, man. I appreciate that.

The text is just another way to avoid the inevitable for a few seconds longer, and I scoff in irritation when Wren chooses now to remain silent. He can probably tell from his mega machine that I haven’t clicked the direct link to download my test results.

With one final deep breath, I click the link, the results telling me exactly what I already know. Alejandro Cooper Holland is my son. My heart pounds, and it’s as if the confirmation changes everything. Although I’ve known the truth for days, the confirmation makes everything real. I don’t know what Tinley did to get Alex’s DNA to the testing sight, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind she didn’t tell him the truth and take him up there in person. I guess I should count myself lucky she didn’t turn in her own spit swab so the results would come back in her favor. It was clear from our brief interaction that she doesn’t want me in his life in any form or fashion.

I need to go to her, but I’m warring with a million-and-one emotions right now, and no good will come of confronting her when my head is this messed up. I have no way to calm down, no way to release all the pent-up anger and hostility I feel, all the pain from missing so much, but time machines aren’t a thing. We’re just going to have to navigate this situation as best as we can manage. Not knowing what the future holds for my son makes me antsy and nervous. I’ve never had to worry about anyone but myself for most of my life. How is it possible that one piece of news made all of that change in an instant?

I am cognizant enough to know that just showing up and demanding to officially meet my son would be an unhealthy blow to him, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him more.

I fire off a text to her, wondering if she’ll even answer.

Me: The results are in. We need to talk.

Five minutes go by before she messages back.

Tinley: I know. They sent them to me as well.

Me: What did you tell him?

Tinley: I haven’t told him anything.

Me: Why does he think I’m not in his life.

Those three little dots appear and disappear several times with long breaks in between before her next message, the one that knocks the wind from my lungs comes through.

Tinley: I told him you died.

Jesus Christ. Is this woman for real? Does she hate me so much that she’d tell such a horrific lie to our child?

Tinley: I told him you were a criminal gangbanger and died in a drug deal gone wrong.

I blink down at my phone. I want to laugh, praying that she’s joking, but deep down I know she isn’t.

Tinley: Are you?

Me: Dead? I’m very much fucking alive.

Tinley: Are you a gangbanger, a drug dealer?

I narrow my eyes at the damn phone, pissed beyond reason.

I shove my phone back in my pocket. She doesn’t deserve a damn answer to such a ridiculous question. It doesn’t matter what kind of life I’ve led since that day I hurt her, but it’s clear what she thinks of me. Alex is my son, and I’m going to be in his life whether she likes it or not.

I don’t have long to stew in my anger, and that’s a good thing because I’m seconds away from calling Wren and insisting he find me a family law attorney, demanding the best so I can win full custody of my son, when the sound of soft knuckles hit the front door.

Pissed, I pull open the door ready to spit venom at whoever has the fucking nerve to bother me right now, but the timid woman on the stoop is wearing a nametag from the realtor’s office I called yesterday, reminding me that I have an appointment with her right now.