Meaning, he lets her do what she wants in the end.

The doors open, and I hold out my hand to Michael.

“Thanks for letting us take a tour,” I say, shaking his meaty paw.

Meanwhile, I stick my receiver right on top of his walkie-talkie. It’s black metal, about the size of a screw. Unless he looks closely at his antennae, he won’t notice it at all.

It will silently beam the images from the hidden camera right out of this building, all the way to my laptop at home.

“Come back soon,” Michael says politely.

I intend to.

15

Camille

When I get home, I knock on Vic’s door.

“Come in!” he calls.

I push the door open. His bedroom is tiny. He only has a minuscule window high up on one wall, like in a prison cell. He doesn’t seem to care, though—he’s papered the walls with posters of all his favorite musicians, and the space is as cheerfully crowded and messy as any teenage boy’s room.

He’s got a desk squished in there with his bed. He’s currently working at that desk, hunched over the laptop I bought him a couple years back.

He sits up a little too quickly when I come into the room.

I automatically glance at the screen, to check if he’s doing his course work.

Instead, I see some kind of music program. It looks like a bunch of slider bars and squiggly graphs.

“What’s that?” I ask him.

“Well . . .” Vic looks guilty.

“Come on. Out with it.”

“It’s this thing for making beats,” he admits.

“What kind of beats?”

“You know. Backing tracks for songs.”

I don’t really know, but I’m interested. I come and sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Let’s hear it,” I say.

“Okay . . .” Vic says nervously.

He places his cursor over the right spot on the screen and presses enter.

The beat plays out of his tinny speakers. I don’t know much about this kind of music, but I can hear that it’s upbeat and catchy, with a 70’s funk sound to it.

“You made that?” I ask Vic.

“Yeah,” he says, grinning shyly. “Listen to this one.”

He clicks another track. This time the beat is slightly eerie, with an instrumental backing that sounds like it belongs in a Kung fu movie.

“Vic, that’s really cool!” I tell him.

“Thanks,” he says.

“What do you do with them?”

“Well . . . I posted a couple online. And I sold them, actually.”

“Oh yeah? What does somebody pay for a beat like that?”

“Well, at first I was charging twenty bucks. But now I’m getting fifty per track.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

I’m impressed. My enterprising little brother has found a way to make money that actually sounds legal.

“I wish I had a better mixing board,” he says. “If I sell a few more, I could probably buy one. But I know I have to save for college too,” he adds hastily.

“Save for both,” I tell him. “Half for college, half for the equipment you need.”

“Alright,” Vic grins. “Fair enough.”

I’m really proud of him. I always knew my little brother was brilliant. He just needs to turn his attention in the right direction. To things that will help him out in life, instead of getting him in trouble.

I look at his thin, handsome face, dominated by his dark eyes and girlish lashes. The truth is, he doesn’t look entirely like my mother. She was 100 percent Puerto Rican. Vic is more fair. It’s possible his dad was a white dude.

I search his features, trying to find evidence of Raymond Page in his face. Could my mom have known a man like that? Dated him, or slept with him?

All kinds of men visited Exotica. As far as strip clubs went, it was one of the fancier ones in the city. People said my mother worked as an escort, too. I didn’t want to believe it. But it’s possible she met Raymond and accidentally fell pregnant.

That’s not information that Page would want anybody else to know. He would have been married to Bella’s mother at the time. And even if she’s okay with him philandering, I doubt that extends to unprotected sex with strippers.

God, it makes me feel sick just thinking about it.

“What?” Vic says. “What are you looking at?”

“That eyelash thing,” I tell him.

He laughs. “It’s kinda cool.”

“Vic,” I say hesitatingly. “Did mom ever tell you anything about your father?”

“No,” he says, frowning. “I told you she didn’t.”

“Do you remember any guys coming around her apartment? Anybody she was dating when you were little?”

“I don’t remember anything about her at all.” Vic scowls.

“What about a tall, bald man?”

“Why are you asking me all this stuff?” Vic says angrily. “I don’t care who my real dad is. Axel’s my dad.”

“I know that, of course he is,” I try to soothe Vic. “It’s just . . . maybe your real dad has money. He might owe you child support.”

“I’m not a child anymore,” Vic says. “It’s too late now.”

I don’t think that’s true, strictly speaking. Vic’s still seventeen. Raymond Page is a wealthy man. I might be able to get something for Victor, to help pay for college.

Because I’m not going to be able to chip in on that anymore. My dad got his test results back from the hospital. He’s got Stage 3 Adenocarcinoma. His doctor says it doesn’t seem to have spread yet, and he’s got a decent chance of recovery if he gets in right away for surgery.

But we have no insurance. I told the hospital we’re broke. They’re trying to get financial aid for us, setting us up with a payment plan in the meantime. That’s going to sap every dime I’ve got, without anything left for Vic.

Which makes me think it might be worth hitting Raymond up for money. I don’t love the idea—he’s wealthy and powerful. And if his daughter is any indication, he’s probably a complete asshole. But what other choice have I got? If he really is Vic’s dad, he owes him something.

Jesus. I just realized that means Bella is Vic’s sister. Or half-sister, I guess. The same as me.

That pisses me off. I don’t like Bella having any connection to my baby brother. It makes me jealous and territorial. I’m the one who raised Vic. I’m the one who always protected him, and took care of him.

Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not Bella I need to talk to. It’s Raymond. And I need a better plan than just ambushing him at work. He’s not going to want to hear what I have to say. I need proof.

“Don’t forget about your schoolwork,” I say to Vic, ruffling his hair on my way out.

I head back down to the auto bay. It’s just me down here today—my dad’s at Midtown Medical going over his treatment plan with Doctor Yang. I wanted to go with him, but he reminded me that we had two cars that were supposed to be finished by the end of the day. And there’s nobody else to do the work but me.