Page 22 of Bronx

“Lev and I didn’t exactly grow up together. Our Mother struggled with heroin addiction all of her life, and so we were both placed into the foster care system fairly young. I don’t know any of his routines.”

“But you two are close?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“So I’m looking for a man you know nothing about and don’t particularly give a shit about?”

“You’re looking for my brother and the reasons why shouldn’t matter.” She sounds pissed.

“This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack. All I have is his cell number, and I don’t even know if it’s registered in his name.”

It’s probably not.

“That’s all the information that I have.” Her voice rises an octave.

She’s worried that I’m not going to do this “favor” for her, but she has no idea that she’s really doing me the favor. I’m just annoyed that it’s going to be this difficult.

If I were a henchman for the Consortium, I damn sure wouldn’t have anything registered under my God given name. The only person I know who can find information with little to no leads is my Uncle Camden, but if I call him, then my entire family will know what I’m doing and I don’t want that. I keep my distance from them for a reason.

“Where was your brother living the last time you talked to him? Does he live in Philly, New Jersey, or somewhere else?”

I cross my fingers, hoping that he does.

“I don’t know that either.”

“You don’t know where he lives?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why?”

“He said he was in between places.”

“So you never sent him a Christmas card or anything?” I ask incredulously.

“I don’t send Christmas cards.”

Karma starts fidgeting with her hair. At first it was hanging down, kind of smooth and flat, sort of how it looks when my Mom flat irons her curls straight. But now she’s pulling it up on top of her head in a messy bun, using a black ponytail holder she was wearing around her wrist.

It’s obvious that this conversation is making her feel uncomfortable, but I can’t care about that. If I don’t ask relevant questions, I’m not going to be able to find this fucker and finally hold him accountable for what happened to me in that cabin six years ago.

“Okay, let’s try this another way. Did he sound strange the last time you spoke to him? Like, do you think he was under some sort of stress or in danger?”

“Lev and I don’t talk on the phone.”

Of course not.

“We only text each other,” she continues. “And no, he didn’t say anything out of the ordinary. He asked me if I was okay like he does every month and I told him I was.”

“And how did he end the exchange?”

“He said he’d check on me the following month, just like he always does.”

“So you told him you were good?” I question, looking directly at her bruised eye.

“Yes, because I was.”

Was being the operative word.