Page 84 of Logan

“Your paycheck landed in my system by mistake.” I don’t bother with pleasantries.

There’s a pause. “What are you talking about?”

“Your salary.” I click back to the report on my screen. “A transfer failed. It bounced to me. Something about Nairobi. So I looked it up.” I take a breath. “Do you want to explain why you’ve been funneling half your paycheck to an orphanage?”

The silence on the other end stretches so long, I think he’s hung up.

Finally, he exhales sharply. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“No kidding. But here we are.” I lean forward, elbows on my desk.“You’ve been routing half your salary there foryears, Lucas. What the hell is going on?”

“You checked the account?” His voice sharpens, edged with annoyance.

“Of course, I checked it. And I Googled the damn place.” My voice rises. “You’re in one of the photos, with kidshanging off you like you’re their favorite uncle. Care to explain?”

“Just send the transfer through,” he says, his tone clipped.

“No,” I snap. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Why are you doing this? Why haven’t you told anyone?”

“Because it’s not aboutanyone else,” Lucas snaps back. “It’s not about you, or me, or Dad. And it sure as hell isn’t something I want turned into a Valeur press release.”

I glance back at the screen, at Lucas in the photo, at the easy way the kids cling to him. “This isn’t you, Lucas,” I say, quieter now.

“Maybe it is,” he says, softer, almost to himself.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he sighs. “Look, just push the transfer through. And don’t tell Dad.”

I hesitate, my hand hovering over the mouse. “Fine,” I say. “But we’re not done here.”

The silence stretches long after the call ends. The photo of Lucas with the kids still open on my screen. I can’t reconcile the man in the picture with the one I’ve known my whole life. Lucas, the smooth-talking dealmaker, the playboy, the one who always keeps people at arm’s length.

Yet there he is, standing among those kids, a boy tugging at his sleeve while another sits perched on his shoulders, laughter in his eyes. It’s not just a one-off either. The transactions, the years of quiet support…

I lean back in my chair, the weight of it pressing down on me. Lucas mentioned none of this—not to me, not to anyone.

I pick up the phone again and stare at the call log, tempted to hit redial. I have questions, ones that gnaw at the edges of my mind, but for the first time, I don’t press.

Instead, I shoot him a text.

I want in too.

Three dots appear, then vanish. A full minute passes before he replies.

Lucas

Thanks. The kids will appreciate it.

It’s not much, but it’s enough.

I glance back at the orphanage’s website, at the smiling faces of the children, at Lucas’s unguarded expression.

Maybe I’ve been wrong about my brother. Maybe I was wrong about myself too.

The only time in the past year that my head didn’t hurt was the week I spent with Sloane. I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Sloane, her pink tongue darting out to catch a stray rivulet of melting ice cream.

Sloane, her hands flying as she expounds on her latest brilliant idea over a candlelit dinner, the glow of the flames dancing across her animated features.