But just then, a small buzz whirs from somewhere, and I blink at the faint sound, dread bringing me back to reality. What is that?
I thought I turned off my phone.
Reporters know to field requests for comment through my parents’ representatives, but that doesn’t stop the greedy ones—of which most are—from digging up my personal cell number.
I reach up, pawing for my phone on my desk, but when I press the Power button I see that it’s still off.
The buzzing continues, and just as realization dawns, my heart skips a beat.
My private cell. The one buried in my drawer.
Only my parents and Mirai had that number. It was a phone for them to reach me if anything was urgent, since they knew I turned off my other one a lot.
They never used that number though, so I never kept it on me anymore.
Pushing up on my knees, I reach into my desk drawer and pull the old iPhone off its charger and fall back to the floor, looking at the screen.
Colorado. I don’t know anyone in Colorado.
This phone never gets calls though. It could be a reporter who somehow tracked down the phone, but then it’s not registered under my name, so I doubt it.
I answer it. “Hello?”
“Tiernan?”
The man’s voice is deep, but there’s a lilt of surprise in it like he didn’t expect me to answer.
Or he’s nervous.
“It’s Jake Ver der Berg,” he says.
Jake Van der Berg…
“Your Uncle Jake Van der Berg.”
And then I remember. “My father’s…?”
“Brother,” he finishes for me. “Step-brother, actually, yes.”
I completely forgot. Jake Van der Berg had rarely been mentioned in this house. I didn’t grow up with any relatives, so I’d completely blanked on the fact that I had one.
My mother grew up in foster care, never knew her father, and had no siblings. My dad only had an estranged, younger step-brother I’d never met. I had no aunts, uncles, or cousins growing up, and my father’s parents were dead, so I didn’t have grandparents, either.
There’s only one reason he’s calling me after seventeen years.
“Um,” I mumble, searching for words. “My mother’s assistant will be handling the funeral arrangements. If you need the details, I don’t have them. I’ll give you her number.”
“I’m not coming to the funeral.”
I still for a moment. His voice is on edge.
And he hasn’t offered condolences for “my loss,” which is unusual. Not that I need them, but why is he calling, then? Does he think my father wrote him into his will?
Honestly, he might have. I have no idea.
But before I can ask him what he wants, he clears his throat. “Your father’s attorney called me earlier, Tiernan,” he tells me. “Since I’m your only living relative, and you’re still underage, your parents apparently left you in my care.”
In his care?