“She’s your daughter,” Reid confirmed. “Dr. Dixon was certain of that. However, she was perplexed by another result that she found.” He had our attention. “She was so surprised that she ran the test three times.”
“What test?” I asked.
“Mason and my counter test came back with no statistically significant number of similar markers.” Reid said.
“Yours and Mason’s,” Sparrow repeated a bit slower.
“Yes,” Reid said with a nod. “I’m just going to say it.”
We all waited.
“While Mason and I share a statistically insignificant number of genetic markers with Ruby...” He took a breath. “Sparrow, you share just under twenty-five percent of the genetic markers—a statistically significant amount.”
Sparrow stood and lifted his hands. “I never met Madeline before the other night.”
“No,” Reid said. “You’re not Ruby’s father. Dr. Dixon and I consulted Laurel...” He looked at Mason, took another deep breath, and turned back to Sparrow. “...we are all in agreement that while you’re not Ruby’s father, genetically you’re related—statistically, closely related.”
“That isn’t possible.”
Madeline
Last night
“Does this mystery asshole who didn’t want to be bothered with bastard relations have a name?” I asked.
“His name was Allister,” Marion said. “Your father’s name was Allister.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“You might be more familiar with his son,” Andros said with a fucking shit-eating grin on his lips.
“Tell me.”
“I believe you’ve met your brother,” he said, “Sterling Sparrow.”
Madeline
With the long pale green robe wrapped around me, I stared toward the awakening sky as dawn’s early morning rays coated the underbelly, a sprinkling of clouds, in shades of crimson. Moment by moment, the hues lightened, reds morphing to rose before changing to pink. Light high above overtook the darkness as the sky changed from velvety black to a vibrant shade of blue.
I’d been sitting on the lounge chair near Marion’s pool since sometime in the middle of the night. Sleep hadn’t been within my reach as I’d paced the confines of the bedroom he’d temporarily deemed as mine. All the while, I contemplated my phone and necklace, my secret means of communication with Patrick and others from the Sparrow organization.
What would I say?
Options came to mind. I could start with the past, explaining how I had been tricked and sold into sexual servitude only to be sold again to one man, to Andros. Or I could jump ahead and blurt out that Andros had indeed moved on, not releasing me from my obligation but by selling me a third time to Marion Elliott.
Even considering the discussion occurring privately with Patrick brought a coating of perspiration to my skin and more knots to my already-tangled stomach.
I was, and still am, a commodity.
The woman Patrick had married nearly two decades ago no longer existed. I’d given up my free will the day I’d told Andros I’d go with him, willingly accompany him as his purchase, agreeing to do whatever he bid for the price of staying with my child. That wasn’t completely accurate. My free will was stripped from me the night my body was also stripped and used for the vulgar pleasure of men like Dr. Miller and Senator McFadden. Any remaining self-worth was crushed over the following four months while I lived in inhumane conditions as nothing more than an incubator subject to ongoing humiliation.
With nothing left but the hope of my child’s survival, those same depraved men put me on display, such as a statue to be viewed and ogled. And now, years later, I learned that the honor of continued existence they’d bestowed upon me didn’t come because of me but because of a man who impregnated my mother.
Even if I told Patrick the truth about the transactions, it didn’t broach the subject of my newly discovered parentage. I was the half sister of the kingpin of Chicago, the man Patrick not only served but considered a friend. It was the status Andros had hoped to capitalize upon, the one Marion still believed would be to his advantage.
For a large portion of the night, I’d reflected on the few memories I had of my parents, of the two people I thought were my parents: Will and Alycia Tate. They’d married before I was born, yet I wasn’t certain of when.
As a young child, I didn’t question or ponder.
Life was what it was.
Sadly, I reflected upon their influence in my life and found nothing remarkable in those memories. There were day-to-day activities, going to school, coming home, and homework at the kitchen table. There were flashes of sitting on