“Man…”

I all but had to pick my jaw up off the floor as I finished reading the last in a series of articles I’d found online.

I was almost positive I’d found my brother.

I’d used one of those free ancestry websites to look up Leland Jakes and found his son’s name, then did a google from there.

Had I ever hit the jackpot once I added in Texas along with Matthew Jakes.

He’d been involved in a car crash some years ago where he’d been accused of killing his mother. Several other guys had been in the car, including the son of some politician, Washington McCrane.

But the doozy of all of them was an article written by one Michelle Nestor that had been picked up by the Associated Press. Years after his release from prison, this woman, Michelle Nestor, breaks a story that my brother – wow, that was weird, even just thinking it – hadn’t been driving the car at all.

The person driving had been the politician’s kid, and Mr. Big Time Politician had covered everything up to avoid the bad press.

Now McCrane was in jail, and Matthew’s name had been cleared. The article mentioned that the son had died a few years earlier. It was all…surreal.

I dug in deeper, trying to find more on Matthew, but there really wasn’t anything outside of those articles and the myriad links to people finder websites. If I had to, I could try one of those, but how many of them were scams? I’d have to research it and find one that was reputable and reliable. I didn’t want to go digging around in people’s lives if I didn’t have to.

“Why couldn’t you make it simple and have a Facebook profile?” I mumbled.

It was possible he did have one, but it was set to private. None of the Matthew Jakes I’d found looked to be the right guy, and I wasn’t about to start hitting up random strangers.

After another hour of fruitless searching, I went back to the article written by Michelle Nestor.

Reading it through, I studied the quotes she’d taken and the brief part of the article that focused on the time she’d spent talking with Matthew. “You know him,” I mused. There was a…familiarity about the entire article.

Okay, if I couldn’t find him myself, I’d reach out through her.

My face burned hot as a flame when I googled her name.

A lot of hits came up, and almost all of them were focused on sex.

My toes curled into the carpet as I clicked on one of them, and an article on oral sex popped up.

My mouth was dry by the time I was done reading it – other parts of me were decidedly not dry.

She had a way of writing that was hella sexy.

I found an article that had actually been written about her, and how she’d gone from an unknown name to an overnight sensation at the magazine she wrote for, all starting with her interview of a… “Son of a bitch,” I whispered. “A male prostitute?”

She went from writing an exposé about the politician who set my brother up to writing sexy little pieces inspired by talks with a gigolo?

Except that wasn’t the only stuff she wrote about. There was a piece on sexual harassment in the workplace. Another on campus rape. I clicked away from both of those, uncomfortable topics.. It looked like she wrote the gamut when it came to women’s interest.

But the only real investigative type piece that I could find was the article about Matthew and McCrane.

“Weird,” I muttered. “How did you even find out about him?”

There was no answer in my quiet little apartment, and I sighed, zooming my mouse in on the search bar so I could type in Michelle Nestor website.

It took me to her LinkedIn page, and I had to go through the hassle of setting up an account I wouldn’t use to get her contact info, but finally, I had it.

I copied it, pasted into the to line of a blank email, then leaned back and pondered on what I should say.

It took nearly an hour to get the words right, but I felt it had to be perfect. It wasn’t like I could just drop her a note, saying…

Hey, I read your articles about sexual harassment and oral sex. Oh, and the one about that guy Matthew Jakes? Um, so…crazy story, but I think he’s my brother and I’d like to meet him. Can you hook us up?

Once I finished, I leaned back and read it through – again.

Before I could let myself start the line of self-doubt and questioning, I sent the email off.

“Okay,” I whispered, shoving back from the kitchen table that doubled as my desk. “You went and did it. Now it’s out of your hands.”

I blew out a hard breath and looked back at the laptop. How long would it take for her to answer?

Oh, shit. What if she didn’t answer?

I dropped my face into my hands and groaned.

She did answer. Less than an hour later, actually.

I heard the little swish announcing a new email and all but tripped over my feet running over to the table.

I hadn’t mentioned anything about Matthew and I being related when I reached out to her.

That wouldn’t be the most ideal way to broach this, so I simply acted like I’d read the article and had a few questions, and asked if she’d be open to meeting for drinks?

Surprisingly, the email reply was a yes.

Slumping in my seat, I read it repeatedly to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.

She could meet…tomorrow.

The place she named was unfamiliar to me, but I rarely got out and about. If it wasn’t near NYU or the boutique, I wasn’t likely to know about it.

I hurriedly emailed her back before she could change her mind – she still might and then what was I going to do?

This time, her reply was almost instantaneous. Eleven o’clock.

Tomorrow, at eleven o’clock, I was going to meet the woman who’d helped my brother clear his name.

And then all I’d have to do is convince her to help me out, so I could meet him.