Page 186 of I’m The Worst

I stop walking and stare down at my phone, my reflection warped in the black screen. What the hell?

I cinch my jacket tighter around myself as I cross the park.

It’s nearly empty at this hour. A couple with a dog passes by near the fountain, two joggers cut through the far path, and the wind coming off the lake slices straight through the thin fabric of my leggings. I scan the benches until I spot her near the trees, short bright-blonde hair tucked into the collar of a thick cream sweater.

She stands the second she sees me.

I slow a few feet away, hands shoved deep into my pockets.

“Miranda?”

“I was worried you wouldn’t show up.”

“You said it was important.”

“It is.” Her gaze flicks over my shoulder, then toward the path behind me, like she expects someone to be watching. “And I shouldn’t be contacting you. But I didn’t know what else to do. He won’t talk to me.”

“Who won’t talk to you?”

Her expression shifts, something pained and tired moving across her face.

“Dylan.”

“Who?”

She motions toward the bench. “Sit down.”

I don’t move, feeling uneasy. “Miranda, I don’t understand⁠—”

“You know him as Wolff.” The wind seems to leave the park all at once.

“This is about Wolff?”

She nods, and I sit before I can think too much about it.

Taking a deep breath, she folds her hands in her lap and gazes out at the path ahead. “I wasn’t sure if he’d told you anything about me,” she says finally. “Or about…before.”

My brow pinches. “He didn’t tell me anything about you.”

A sad little smile touches her mouth. “He wouldn’t.”

I stare at her profile. “How do you know him?”

Her fingers lift to the pale, uneven skin at the side of her neck—half hidden beneath her sweater collar. The burn scar I noticed at the café.

“He’s my brother.”

I go completely still. “What?”

“Not by blood.” Her voice stays quiet, but her fingers don’t leave her neck. “Foster brother. But brother, all the same. His name was Dylan. Long before he joined the Sovereign.”

A cold, sick feeling crawls up my spine. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he won’t answer my calls. Hasn’t answered them in years.” Her eyes flick to mine. “And because the way he was with you in Russia… I’ve never seen him like that.”

My throat tightens. “You don’t know anything about me and Wolff.”

“No,” she says gently. “I probably don’t. But I know Dylan. Or I knew him once.”