AARON
Bee’s mom answers on the third ring, and my girl gives her no time before she starts in.
“What happened before I was five?” she demands.
“That was before we moved to London,” she hedges.
“Where were we? Why did we leave? Who is my father and why the bloody hell does some Trent bloke think you stole me from him?!” There’s my Bee; all her questions coming rapid fire, her usually reserved voice raising on each one.
“She didn’t mention the so-called engagement with him,” Callan says.
“Maybe she forgot.”
“One can hop,” Callan snorts.
Her mom doesn’t respond for several moments. Then, when she does, her voice comes out cold and quiet; a certain brutal lethality to it that I must admit I respect.
“Stavros,” Bee responds impatiently. “But why does that matter—”
“Did he go to
