I grimaced. Jo-Jo had been the one who’d given me the folder about my murdered family two months ago soon after Fletcher’s funeral. The dwarf had told me to come talk to her about the information when I was ready.

Something else I hadn’t done yet.

“What’s there to talk about?” I shrugged. “For some reason, Fletcher Lane knew who I really was all along, and he never said a word to me about it. Instead, he spent his free time compiling all the info he could on my dead family, like I was another one of his targets. Some hit he was trying to figure out how to do. The old man gives the folder to you, then gets murdered before he can tell me about it—or what the hell he wanted me to do with the information. I don’t see what we have to discuss.”

Jo-Jo stared at me. “Your sister, for starters.”

I snorted. “Oh yes, my baby sister, Bria, who I find out is alive after thinking she was dead for seventeen years.”

“I can understand why you feel hurt, why you feel like Fletcher betrayed you. But family is everything, Gin,” the dwarf said in a soft voice. “Whether it’s the one you’re born into or the one you make for yourself. Bria is your blood, your sister, and she’s alive. You can’t just ignore that.”

“Fletcher left me a picture of her, but he didn’t tell me how to find her. Where she’s at, what she’s even like now. Kind of sloppy of him to omit that information, don’t you think?” I snapped.

“Fletcher Lane never did anything he didn’t mean to,” Jo-Jo said. “He left you that picture for a reason. You’ll understand why one day.”

The tone of her voice made the wheels of my brain grind together—just like my teeth were doing. My gray eyes burned into her light ones. “You know, don’t you? You know why he compiled that information.”

Jo-Jo tilted her head. “I have some ideas.”

“Care to share?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.

The dwarf shook her head. “It’s not my place. This is between you and Fletcher.”

“He’s dead.”

“Doesn’t mean he still can’t speak to you,” Jo-Jo said.

“All you have to do is be willing to listen.”

I opened my mouth to tell her to cut out the cryptic talk, that it was a little hard to have a conversation with someone who was buried six feet under. But Finn chose that moment to stroll into the salon. He jangled his car keys in his hand.

“You ready?” Finn asked.

I glanced at him. “Sophia cleaned the blood out of the back of the Aston already? How the hell did she do that?”