I don’t respond to her comment because she’s correct. Commodore moved out of the estate when he started feeling unwell . . . but not until he accused my mother of poisoning his morning coffee. Now, when he comes to the estate, he refuses to eat or drink anything he didn’t personally bring with him. Obviously, I come by my trust issues genetically.

“I would expect him to stop by sometime tonight or tomorrow. Information has come to light that he’ll need to share with you. And I’m sure your cell phone will show up and the internet will be fixed soon.”

“What information? I want to know right now. I’m not waiting for that old dictator.”

“I’m sorry, Mother. Commodore’s orders.”

“But—”

I disconnect the call and feel a twinge of guilt for all of two seconds that I hung up on my mother. I’ve already admitted I’m a shitty son, so it’s not surprising. I’ve lost too many hours of my life to her tirades, and they never actually solve anything.

Letting Commodore take the role of explaining may seem like the coward’s way out, but I’m not taking responsibility for the consequences of him sitting on the information for months. This could have been resolved easily enough if he had made different choices.

I rise from my chair and tuck my hands into my pockets as I walk toward the windows. The frothing water churns over the rocks, and I finally let myself ask the question I’ve been avoiding since yesterday morning.

Was Ricky Rango my half brother?

The very idea seems ludicrous.

I stride back to my computer and lean over it to type his name into the search bar.

Dozens of images pop up immediately. Rango onstage. Rango walking the red carpet. Rango on late-night shows, standing in front of exotic cars, signing autographs, and taking pictures with his arms slung around the shoulders of adoring fans.

I forget to look at his face for any kind of resemblance, because I’m too struck by one similarity all of the pictures share—Whitney isn’t next to him in any of them.

I scan the screen, scrolling further down the page. Finally, at the bottom, I spot a photo where she’s partially visible. It’s another red carpet. Maybe some kind of awards show? She stares at the ground, a smile on her face that even I can tell is forced.

She married him, but she was never happy with him.

I’ve spent ten years assuming she was off living the high life as the wife of a rock star, but I’ve never been more wrong about anything.

No more assumptions when it comes to Whitney. None.

I lower myself into my chair and reach for my phone to listen to the songs she wrote, but it vibrates with a call as soon as I touch it.

Commodore.

“Yes, sir?”

“Meet me at the cemetery. Now.”

Twenty-Four

Whitney

“Excuse me. So sorry.”

The blonde steps back. Her look of surprise is impossible to miss, as is the sharp knowledge in her gaze. She says nothing as she looks me up and down.