“Told you, bro.” Rohan paused, as if considering humankind’s presence in the world. “Felt as good as I thought it would.”
Zeke dropped into his favorite chair, a camel-colored recliner that doubled as a bed when the muscles in his lower back decided to throw a torture party.
He planted his elbows on his thighs and clamped his hands around his head. “Who’s surprised I screwed up something else?”
In a quiet voice, Rohan asked, “How did it feel to hold it?”
Unable to speak around his tight throat, he nodded.
“Was it everything you expected?”
Lifting his head, he said, “It was…more than I expected. So much more.”
“Do you feel different after having had it in your possession?”
Sighing, he sank into the cushions and leaned his head back. “Do you mean do I feel smarter, stronger, more capable of leading this motley crew?”
“That’s what you thought, right? That holding the symbol of our ancestors’ power would imbue you with their wisdom, respect, and strength?”
“Too fantastical?”
“Too easy.”
“What am I going to do, Rohan? I can’t—none of us can—continue on as we are.”
“It’s simple.”
Zeke raised a brow.
“Trust your team.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t. Not fully.”
“Eighty-eight percent of our business comes from word of mouth. If we fail to recover an asset, it not only affects getting more clients, but the livelihoods of every member of this family.”
“We won’t fail, because we’re a team,” Rohan said. “We’ll make mistakes, yes. No matter how talented someone is—even you—mistakes are inevitable. But BARS is made up of highly motivated, highly competitive men and women. No one will stop until the asset is in the rightful owner’s hands.”
“I understand what you’re saying—what everyone is saying—but the reality isn’t so fucking black-and-white.”
Rohan removed his glasses and hooked them in the collar of his button-down shirt, as if he didn’t want any barriers between them. His brother could see fine without them, but wearing them made the world more crisp. Revealed nuances he couldn’t pick up with the naked eye. Or so he said.
“You know how Mom refuses to throw away the scratched album the five of us bought for her when we were kids?” Rohan asked.
Snoopy’s Red Baron. They had pooled together their minuscule resources and given it to her as a Christmas present. She’d been so happy that tears had slid down her cheeks. A rarity. He could count on two fingers the number of times he’d seen his mom cry over the years.
Zeke nodded. “There are so many scratches that it’s impossible to listen to without sitting beside the record player.”
“Why do you suppose she keeps nursing it along?”
“Sentimental reasons, I suppose.”
“Most likely.” Rohan regarded him with eyes too ancient for his twenty-nine years. “Or was it an inability to let go? The record is obviously more frustration than pleasure now. Why not get a new album, one that doesn’t hiccup every ten seconds, and store the old one away?”
Times like this solidified his fear that the right Blackwell wasn’t leading BARS. It seemed any one of his brothers could do a damn sight better job than him.
But he wasn’t a quitter and, despite recent history, he could adapt. It only took banging his stubborn head—like his mom’s—against the Rock of Reason two, five, a hundred times before he got it.
“Message received, bro.” He pushed out of his chair, a new energy firing through his veins.
“Now get out of here. I need to shower and speak to Liv before we huddle up this morning. Something about the doll’s disappearance is bugging me, and I need to talk it out with everyone.”
When Rohan said nothing, Zeke grew still. “What haven’t you told me?”
Rohan’s eyes flicked to the bed, then returned to him. “She’s gone.”