Page 25 of Bronx

Maybe there are old letters I can use to find an address as a starting point.

“Oh, no, Lev found me the week I aged out of the system. By then he was back in the states. We hadn’t seen each other since I was five-years-old and I barely remembered him, but we had bacon cheeseburgers, talked about what little we remembered about Roxanne, and exchanged phone numbers. We’ve kept in touch ever since.”

“And so you’re saying that at some point he moved back to the states, got a job with the government, and has worked for them ever since as a translator?” I ask skeptically.

“Yes,” she states plainly, then she glares at me with a face full of caution. “How did you say you know my brother again?”

We’re in a stare off as I come to the conclusion that out of the many things that Karma knows about her brother, only one may be true, and the rest are half-truths or complete lies. She knows just as much about him as I do. Maybe less.

“I didn’t say.”

“I’m asking you now. How do you know Lev?”

“I met him once.”

“And he helped you with something? Is that why he owes you this favor?” she asks optimistically.

Even though I didn’t think the bloody thing was beating inside of me anymore, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. Plus, as soon as I tell her what my real connection is to that sociopath brother of hers, she’d probably run for the hills and I’ll never get another chance like this.

Karma is my link to finally getting my justice. If he ever pops out of whatever hole he’s crawled into, it’s only going to be because of her. This is probably my one and only opportunity to confront him and be done with that part of my life.

I can’t blow it.

“Something like that,” I tell her.

“I figured as much.” She sounds almost relieved. “Lev is always looking out for folks.”

It takes everything in me not to laugh out loud at her misguided statement. Looking out for people? Poor girl, she doesn’t have a clue who she’s related to.

I suppose in some ways, Karma has seen a lot and lived through even more. Hell, I imagine that no kid survives foster care unscathed, but in other ways, amazingly enough, Karma is pure innocence.

She may not know much about her shitty brother, but I guess it’s not imperative that she knows all things in order for me to settle this score. In this case, for her peace of mind, keeping her ignorant may just be bliss.

“Anything else you want to ask, Mr. Masterson?” she asks after checking the time on her slender gold tone watch. “Our time together is almost at an end. Kim will be home soon.”

The timepiece she’s wearing is delicate with classic lines, much like Karma’s features. It looks like a vintage piece, and I wonder for a moment where she got it from. Perhaps it’s her one and only memento from her Mother.

“You like jewelry?”

“Yes.” She looks down wistfully at her watch. “This was my grandmother’s.”

“Family heirloom?”

“It was the only good piece of jewelry my Mom didn’t sell so she could get high. She sold her diamond earrings and her wedding set, but I used to play dress up in my room with the watch, so she never found it.”

“Oh.”

I decide to lighten the mood.

“By the way, my name is Bronx. Don’t call me Mr. Masterson. That’s what people call my father and I’m pretty sure that you and I are close in age.”

“Just trying to be respectful,” she says almost playfully.

“Somehow I doubt that,” I jest in return.

She grins for just a moment, and it’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her since we’ve met.

I like it.