Birthright

“I’m gonna say it,” Threes says slowly, “because no one else seems to want to. It could be Cherry. That’s what we’re all thinking here, and someone has to come out and say it.”

He looks straight into my eyes like he’s waiting for me to take a swing at him, and I have to admit that I’m tempted. I preferred it when we were all dancing around what was in front of us, but now I can’t deny that it’s possible.

“The timing is right,” Threes says as he keeps his gaze on me. “Leanne could have had another child between Janna and Jay. You have to admit that it could be Cherry.”

“She did come here looking to find her birth parents,” Antony says quietly.

“They see it,” Pops whispers in my ear, “so why can’t you?”

I swallow hard, trying to rid myself of the burning taste in the back of my throat. This can’t be happening, not after everything has been going so smoothly, so perfectly. Cherry can’t possibly be involved with the Ramsays. I know she can’t.

I think.

I’m not going to get anywhere without more information, so I turn my gaze to Antony.

“Go pick up that guy tailing her—Aaron. Take whoever you need with you. Just make sure none of them have met Cherry.” I turn to Threes. “You get the barn set up. We’ll all meet there. I want to know everything that guy knows.”

“You got it, boss.”

*****

I drop my ass on a bench in the barn, trying to tune out Aaron’s final, gasping breaths. My head is pounding from the stress and lack of sleep, and my hands are starting to shake a little. I should probably lay off the caffeine for a while.

We’d been here all day, doing everything Threes could think of to get information out of Cherry’s internet date, and I’m beyond exhausted. Aaron admitted to working with the Ramsays but not until after he was thrown out of the Big O. Apparently, that pissed him off enough to switch sides. He claims he has no idea why the Ramsays wanted him to tail Cherry, and he was only supposed to report her comings and goings, not protect her from anything. He said he knew nothing about Micha or why my brother could have been looking into Cherry’s past right before he was killed.

In my heart, I want to believe Aaron’s words. I want to think that Cherry knows nothing of her past, just as she’s told me. I don’t want to even consider that she might know more about her heritage than she’s let on.

Then again, I don’t know if I can believe anything Aaron says. I can’t make sense of what’s going on here at all. For the first time in months, I have what might be a lead on my brother’s death, and it looks like it might involve my girlfriend.

I can’t deal with this.

I suddenly realize I have

n’t called Cherry today, and it’s starting to get late. I’m pretty sure I can’t keep my voice steady on the phone, so I type out a quick excuse.

Nate O: Sorry I haven’t managed to call today. Working late tonight. I’ll have to get back to you after work tomorrow. Hope you’ve had a wonderful day, my Cherice!

She replies quickly and with far more typos that she usually sends.

I’ve hand an intersting day. I’ll tak to you tomorrow. Gnight Nate.

I narrow my eyes at the screen, trying to read between the lines that may or may not be there. Why was her day interesting? What had she been doing? Had she, as Antony and Pops suspect, been meeting with the Ramsays? Had she seen Aaron’s abduction, and she went to tell them about it?

If she had seen Antony and company picking the guy up outside her apartment, and she had no idea what was going on, wouldn’t she have called the police? She hadn’t. I would have heard about it if she had.

“Any normal person would have called the police,” I say softly.

“Maybe she’s the one who did it,” Pops says. “Maybe she put that gun to your brother’s head and pulled the trigger.”

“No. She couldn’t have done that.”

“You don’t know shit.”

My muscles tense; I grit my teeth and close my eyes tightly. If I look at him, I’m going to take a swing at him, and I don’t want to do that in front of the others.

When I open my eyes again—some amount of control regained—Antony is heading in my direction, wiping his hands on a bloody towel.

“He’s done,” my cousin tells me. “It won’t be long now.”