Page 17 of The Charlie Method

“No, I think it’s better to look at the results first. Maybe there won’t even be anything to tell them about.”

Good point. I flop down beside her and open the app, logging on with facial recognition.

Welcome back!the screen greets me.

Underneath that is a button that saysSee your results.

“Go on,” Faith encourages.

Biting my lip, I tap the button. It brings me to a new page, which features a list of all the genealogical connections associated with my DNA. I take one look at the first entry and gasp.

“Holy shit,” Faith exclaims.

BioRoots had touted its comprehensive search engine’s ability to uncover links going back generations. I expected to find a great-grandparent maybe. A third or fourth cousin who’s vaguely related to another cousin. Someone who in turn might be able to point me in the direction of the biological parents who abandoned me at an orphanage.

The last thing I expected was a full biological brother.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHARLOTTE

Dirty, rotten traitor

MY BROTHER CALLS THE NEXT AFTERNOON.

My real brother.

Wait, but wouldn’t my new brother be the “real” one because of our biological connection?

Then what does that make Oliver?

Oliver isnota fake brother to me!

You’re spiraling, Charlotte!

Oh my God. I really am. I’ve been obsessing about this DNA bombshell since last night. The first thing I did when I woke up this morning was open the site to ensure the entry was still there and I didn’t hallucinate it. Sure enough, there it was. One biological brother found—and his location is the United States. Is he an international student from Korea? Was he adopted too and grew up here? Did he move to America on his own?

My mind has been spinning all day, plagued with questions. But only one question really matters.

Should I reach out to him?

I was about to run it by the Method, my laptop open and fingers poised over the keyboard, when my phone started vibrating.

I close the laptop and lean back in my chair. It’s big and comfy. Swivels too, which my dad considers a major hazard. We argued about it in the furniture store, which led to an intense debate about whether a swivel chair is more or less likely to lead to someone’s death. Then Mom found a bunch of statistics about it, because that’s the kind of family we are.

“Hey,” I greet Oliver. “What’s up?”

“You tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were acting weird yesterday. I figured I’d wait for you to get back to school, away from the watching eyes of Mom and Dad, so you can tell me why you were being weird.”

“I wasn’t being weird,” I protest.

“Yes, you were, and you’re still a terrible liar. What’s going on?”

Oh, nothing much. Just discovered I’ve got a biological brother out there somewhere roaming the same planet as me.

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