I had never seen her cry that hard, not even after the cancer diagnosis.
Then she gave me the last important thing she would ever ask of me.
“”Summer… when I’m gone… find them.””
After her funeral, I packed everything I owned into my huge red, white, and blue plaid plastic tote, wrote my brothers’ names on a slip of paper, and took a Greyhound to Los Angeles.
The city overwhelmed me almost immediately. Cars everywhere. People everywhere. Noise coming from every direction. I barely knew how to navigate anywhere outside my small Midwestern hometown.
So I remembered something teachers used to tell us in school: if you’re in trouble, find a cop.
I walked into an LAPD precinct with my tote bag, my birth certificate, and those three names.
The desk officer looked perfectly normal until he read the first one.
Then he looked at me.
He read the second.
Then the third.
Suddenly the officers were staring at me like I had claimed to be related to someone impossible.
“”Are these men your brothers?”” one officer asked.
“”That’s what my mom said.””
A phone call was made almost immediately. Then a female officer approached and asked, “”Do you even know who they are?””
I shook my head.
“”Your oldest brother is the CEO of one of the largest venture capital firms in Silicon Valley.””
My mind stalled. “”And the second one?””
“”An actor. A major Hollywood movie star.””
“”And the third?””
“”A professional Twitch streamer. He has millions of followers.””
I was sure there had been some mistake. I came from a town where the water could shut off twice a week. These people could not possibly be my family.
Except the records matched.
The officers told me they had contacted my oldest brother, and he was coming to get me.
So I waited outside the precinct gripping my plaid bag.
A tattooed guy with a buzz cut was waiting nearby. He told me he had just been in a huge bar fight and sent somebody to the ER, then bragged that his wealthy boss would probably send an SUV for him.
A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up.
He grinned. “”See? That’s my ride. Worth over a hundred grand.””
Then he glanced at my battered tote and asked what my family was driving.
“”I don’t know,”” I admitted. “”I’ve never seen my brothers.””
His whole attitude softened. He even offered me a ride and coffee.
I had just realized he was flirting with me when another black car rounded the corner.
The tattooed guy stared.
“”No freaking way. A custom Maybach.””
Even the cops turned toward it.
The car rolled directly in front of me and stopped.
A tall, sharply dressed man stepped out, studying a photograph on his phone. Then he looked up at my old hoodie, dusty Converse, and enormous plaid bag.
Two seconds passed.
“”Are you Summer Davis?””
I opened my mouth to answer.
But before I could, the rear door flew open—and the most famous streamer in the country jumped out onto the curb, already shouting.
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