Sinner(157)

Forget “no repeats”, I’m way past that. This is new ground, and I’ve got no idea what the move is here.

A call coming through the Bluetooth of my car shakes it from me. I glance at the dash screen and frown.

It’s Kyle, my investigative guy - the investigative guy I’m paying to dig into Serena’s life.

I instantly feel like an asshole.

“Hey, what’s going-”

“I found something.”

He sounds out of breath, and my brow furrows. “What’s going on?”

“It’s…” he sighs. “This is big, man. You need to hear this.”

I frown again as I pull into the Marshalls’ driveway “Can I call you later? I’m actually just picking Emily up from a friend-”

“He’s her father, Landon.”

“Pardon?”

“Her father - he’s her father,” Kyle’s says, his voice shaded in urgency.

“Kyle, slow down, who’s-”

“Landon, listen to me.”

I freeze, a chill suddenly creeping through me.

“Samuel Horn is Serena Roth’s father.”

Oh shit.





Chapter Thirty





Landon




My eyes flit across the computer screen. I blink, again, trying to process all the information Kyle’s just emailed over.

This is huge. This is enormous. This is so big, it’s going to crush her.

It’s going to be a huge fucking deal for the board, too. I’m looking at his mountain of dirty laundry, and I know exactly how this goes. Any of those guys on the board who’re worried about the team right now?

Yeah, wait until they find out the mysterious woman Sam Horn deeded it to along with me is his abandoned daughter from an affair with well-loved Hall of Fame defensive coach. Wait until they put two and two together that he’s giving it to her out of some sort of late life and lately discovered guilt complex. It’ll destroy any shred of confidence we’ve spent the last few weeks building up with all the work we’ve done.

Kyle’s done a damn good job, and the grizzly details of the whole thing are spilled out like bloodlines in front of me. Sam always was a womanizer and a cad, and always did have a certain way with women - usually much younger women. But this is a little beyond even the norm.

Sam Horn is Serena Roth’s father.

It’s the only possible reason for Serena’s mysterious attachment to this team and Sam’s will. I’m almost amazed I never saw it before now, when it’s so damn obvious. Maybe because I was too busy kissing her. Maybe because I was too busy feeling her body shatter and shiver for me. Maybe because I was too busy breaking every single goddamn rule I had to see how clear the answer was, right in front of my damn face.

Glancing over the old files and the reports Kyle and Silas have put together, I can trace the whole thing back through the years of hidden drama. It looks like Sam probably linked up with Serena’s mother Celia back when Billy Roth was just starting to make his mark with the Bulls down in Houston. They probably met at some bullshit league conference or something, but however it is fate got them together, there was an affair. Knowing Sam, I doubt it lasted longer than a week.

Long story short, Celia got knocked up, pretended it was her husband’s, and went ahead and had the baby. And for his entire life, Billy Roth thought Serena was his biological daughter.

Jesus.

But there’s damning evidence here that I’m sure Sam paid well to bury. Kyle and Silas are just that good, though. The paternity test I’m sure Celia demanded. The monthly transfers to a hidden account opened in her name. The single letter - handwritten - where she tells Sam the baby’s name, demands a monthly fee to keep quiet, and tells him she never wants her daughter to know who he is.

I blow air through my lips as I drop my head into my hands.

Fucking hell.

I don’t know what the hell I was expecting to find looking into the past like this, but this is way bigger than anything I could have imagined.

This is more than I ever wanted to know, and it sours inside of me as I sit in the silence of my home office.

Sam Horn, the man who took me in and was more of a father to me than my real one? Well, turns out he was exactly like my actual father, who left his wife and his only kid to go off and do his own shit. The man I looked up to, and the man I modeled my adult life after was every bit the abandoning prick I never wanted to be, or be around.

“Are you ready yet?”

I glance up at Emily, sticking her freckle-faced head into my office.

Scratch that. Not Emily - Lady Emily. Lady Emily, master swordsman and dragon-hunter with whom I’ve spent the better part of this week after work helping to turn plywood and silver paint into a shield and a sword. Because that fair Serena’s coming along with us to today? Yeah, it’s a renaissance fair.