Dad sends the message at nine seventeen in the morning:
Office. You and Mayhem. Now.
No explanation. No punctuation beyond the full stops. Which, for Dad, is basically the equivalent of setting off a flare.
I’m halfway through my first coffee in the garage when my phone buzzes. Mayhem’s does the same thing from the other side of the room. He reads the message, looks at me, and I look at him. Neither of us says anything.
Tucker glances up from the payroll paperwork. “Someone die?”
“Not yet,” Mayhem says, getting to his feet.
I push away from the table, my stomach tightening before I’ve even stood up. There’s surely only one reason that Dad wants both of us in his office this early.
The results.
The DNA test.
Willow.
Mayhem reaches the landing first, but for once he doesn’t make a
