Lacy’s number goes straight to voicemail again.

I can’t blame her for ending the call, considering the way I’d left things this summer. It had been a routine challenge not to call her, but I made a promise to myself not to mess with--and mess with her life any more than I already had.

When I put my phone back in my pocket, a hollow chill rolls through me, and not from the chilly New York fall. The truth is I still care about her. Even if I’m not mature enough for a full-fledged relationship. Hearing her voice tonight reminded me of that fact.

Heading back into the bar, I see Chandler and Detective Gates sitting in the corner booth we had staked out. Gates insisted we meet somewhere both ‘safe’ and public, which confused me a little, but he promised he would explain once we were here. The Mic Drop was a hole-in-the-wall place in downtown New York, where people seldom frequented before two A.M.

“Did she answer?” Chandler asks as I file back into our booth.

I shake my head, handing Chandler back his phone.

“And you’re blocked now, too.”

“Damn. Sorry, man,” he says, then furrows his brow a little.”

“I just got this feeling like something was off with her. So I called her.”

Detective Gates clears his throat, taking a drink of water. “Excuse me,” he says, looking around the room, then pulling out a manila folder.

Carter and I refocus our attention on him.

“In here, you’ll find the paper trail and proof of what I’m about to say to you.” Gates leans in, looking me in the eye. “Mr. Flynn, are you sure you want him to be here?”

“He’s my brother. Whatever you have to say to me, you can say to him.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Excuse you?” I bark back.

Detective Gates has done great work, but sometimes he gets under my skin.

“It’s okay,” Chandler interjects. “Tell us what you mean by that.”

Flitting his eyes between each of us, he takes a deep breath.

“I mean, I’m not so sure you two are brothers.”

I recoil. “But the test said we were. And you ran the test yourself, to confirm. You said our fathers’ side of DNA were a one-hundred percent match.”

“That’s correct, they were.”

I cross my arms, and raise one eyebrow. “So if we’re a one-hundred percent match, tell me how in God’s name we might not be brothers?”

Chandler raises an eyebrow, similarly.

“Look,” I point out. “We even do the same eyebrow thing.”

I gnaw on my lower lip as Detective Gates folds his hands on the table.

Since we found out we were related, we decided not to tell the public, considering the vast amount of media attention that would be on us and the coincidences around our stories.

Pro basketball players. Teammates. And also…brothers?

We’re not ready to go public yet.

By the same token, our relationship has totally changed in the past few months. Having no siblings, I never thought I would be an uncle. And with Amy and Chandler being a few months out from having their first baby, I’ve never felt more like a part of a family. Our friendship has given me something to hold onto in light of Lacy being gone.

Detective Gates clears his throat. “I want you to know I’m not just throwing this theory out there. I’ve meticulously researched this.”

“Out with it, Gates.” Chandler slams a fist on the table.

“Calm yourselves,” Gates says. “So we thought from that genetic test that your father was Jack Whitehead. The man from Murphysboro who you visited, Chandler.”

“Right,” Chandler agrees.

Gates nods. “Turns out that Jack has an identical twin.”

Chandler and I make eye contact, both of our jaws dropping virtually to the ground.

“Jack’s twin is named Jeff Doonsbury. He’s a powerful billionaire businessman who lives on the east coast, outside New York City.”

“He’s a fucking billionaire?”

Gates nods. “He keeps a somewhat low profile, though that should change since he’s running for Senate soon. It’s all in the folder.”

“This is a lot to process,” I say. Chills rack through me as I remember my mom’s words when she saw the picture I showed her of Jack Whitehead.

That’s not your father, she’d said. Your father was much better looking.

I’d brushed off what she’d said as the hallucinations of a woman who’d imagined a night in Vegas with my father was more glamorous than the reality.

Chandler scrubbed a thumb across his chin.

“So if they were twins, why did they have different last names?”

“Adopted by different families,” Gates says. “Separated at birth.”

“Wait.” I hold up a palm. “So then how the hell did you find him, if they aren’t even related in the slightest? And if they’re identical, how the hell is one so much more successful than the other?”

“I pulled up their adoption records and traced them. Please, don’t be concerned about the strings I had to pull. That’s what you’re paying me for. But trust me when I say this is true. And as for the disparity in success, I suppose this case study makes a strong argument for nurture over nature.”

“So Chandler is Jack Whitehead’s son, and I’m…Jeff Doonsbury’s son?”

Gates shakes his head. “We can’t say for sure who is who’s son. You could both be Jack’s, or Jeff’s, or Chandler could be Jeff’s and you’re Jack’s.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “It’s like a damn episode of Maury.”

Gates lets out one chuckle, which seems to be the maximum amount of laughter he’s capable of. I like that in my detective.

“There’s only one way to know for sure. That would be to ask both of them, ask your mothers, get more in depth.” He frowns. “Do you both have good relationships with your mothers?”

Chandler shrugs. “Yes, but she hates talking about my dad. It’s like asking a Vietnam vet about the war, or something.”

“Same,” I nod.

“These conversations can be difficult to start. But they’re important.” Gates shrugs. “Unfortunately, there’s no way to be sure that you’re half-brothers without asking the source, since Jeff’s and Jack’s DNA is the same.”

“What if we want to just ask him?” I say. “Well, where is he? Let’s go.”

Gates lets out another chuckle. “Not New York, this time of year. Jeff Doonsbury likes it where it’s warm. He loves spending vacation time in the tropics. And it’s evident that he wants to keep you under the rug, Carter. And you, Chandler.”

“Oh, so he is my father,” I say.

“From the circumstantial evidence I’ve put together, it seems likely.”

“What do you mean, ‘he wants to keep us under the rug?’” Chandler asks.

“I mean, he probably doesn’t want the public to know about him having illegitimate sons. I don’t think he even knows you know who he is. The man is a billionaire in the public eye, so it wouldn’t look too good on him. It’s hard to say how he’d react.”

After the meeting is over, Chandler and I head out into the cold New York air, strolling down the city streets.

“Damn man, this is wild,” Chandler says.

“It’s a lot to process.” I agree. “We should do something to, you know, cope with this.”

“Like go back to therapy? I’ve been through that already.”

“No,” I chuckle. “Like get fucked up.”

Chandler hesitates. “I don’t know man.”

With Amy’s pregnancy, he’s been more and more conservative as of late, especially when it comes to partying.

“C’mon,” I say. “We’re in New York all night anyway. Just you and me. We don’t have a game tomorrow.”

He gets that gleam in his eye.

“You know what?” he says. “Fuck it. I’m in.”