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I take a risk with my next words.
Brahms: Nothing. I just wanted you to know that if you’re hiding something, you can come clean—I won’t be upset.
Sephie: Well, lucky for you, I don’t have anything to confess today.
I read her message again. So she doesn’t have anything to confess today, but what about tomorrow? I have to let this go for now. My plan is different. She can keep her secret—for now.
Brahms: Or so you say. Are you coming upstairs to visit with my brothers?
Sephie: Not today.
Brahms: They miss you, you know.
Sephie: I’ll see them tomorrow—after eight.
And there it is again, that specific time.
Brahms: What are you doing between seven-thirty and eight?
Sephie: Why are you being so nosy?
I decide to ask one last question before ending this chat.
Brahms: What are you hiding, Seraphina? Whatever it is, I hope it lets you sleep easy. I’ll see you in the morning.
I hit send and set my phone aside just as the doors of the music room swing open and in saunter my brothers.
“Hey, Fucker,” Bartók announces with a grin, taking in the opulence of the room. “Nice setup you’ve got here. But mine? It’s bigger and oh-so-much better.”
“It’s to overcompensate his little dick,” Ellington says.
Joplin, Sibelius, and Ellington pat my shoulder and make themselves at home.
“He’s alive,” Sibelius jokes drily.
“I’m just glad I wasn’t called to your funeral,” Joplin adds with a smirk.
“Shut up,” Ellington growls.
Joplin shrugs. “Dude, you called yesterday saying it was life or death but wouldn’t explain.”
I glance at Ellington. “You did that?”
He shrugs. “In my defense, it’s the only way to get him here fast.”
Joplin folds his arms, unamused. “One of these days, I’ll leave you hanging if you keep pulling that stunt.”
Determined to steer the conversation back, I interject, “Look, there’s a reason I wanted you all here.” I recount my encounter with Aria and Ewan.When I finish, they all stare at me astonished.
“You’re a dad,” Ellington repeats incredulously. “And she never told us.”
Sibelius clears his throat. “We knew,” he admits calmly.
“What?” I roar, anger boiling up in me.
Sibelius doesn’t flinch. “She visited Dad a few times. He never gave exact dates, but the last time, he approached me about setting up trust funds for the kids. Something about letting them have a piece of what belongs to them but not until they were eighteen,” Sibelius explains with maddening composure.
“You knew and never told me?” I demand through gritted teeth.
