I haven’t read the email from Logan from this morning. He didn’t mark it urgent and he’s good about doing that when it is. The message itself is blank, so I open the attachment.
It’s a letter from Starla Labs. I only have to read down a few lines to realize what it is.
Alleged father: James Madison Logan.
Probability of paternity: 97%.
I sink back in my chair. Holy fuck. I knew it was a possibility but seeing it in print, suddenly, it’s so real.
I pick up my main phone and hit his contact. It rings five times before he picks up.
“Maxie,” he slurs.
“Where are you, buddy?”
“Club.”
“Is Emily with you?”
“No . . . can’t face her.”
Fuck. “Give me the address and I’ll come get you.”
“’M okay.”
No, he’s not. “Give me the address or I’ll call Emmy and get it.”
“Said I’m okay.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t. But what kind of fucking friend would I be if I let you drink alone in the middle of the afternoon?”
A strained chuckle comes over the phone. “You can’t come here. Gotta book guests.”
“Then I’m sending a cab and you’re coming to mine.”
“Fuck, Maxie.”
“Yeah, fuck, man. Get your ass over here.”
“’M coming.”
Someone in the background says, “I’ll help you downstairs, Master Logan.”
Satisfied he’s being handled and that he’s sufficientlycompos mentisto give a driver my address, I flip over to my messages and text first Manny, then Emily, confirming I’m taking care of Logan.
Manny responds to say he’s on a job but can get someone to switch out if it’s an emergency. I reassure him it’s not as I watch a string of messages come in.
Brenna: Logan’s on the way to your place. Do you need help?
The club’s grapevine is impressive.
Emily: Is everything okay?
I went out and when I came back, Daddy wasn’t home.
I thought he might have gone to meet his friend, Mac. Is he there, too?
I thumb my phone’s screen as I consider how to answer. I call Brenna first.
