There was a gentle rapping at the door. That large piece of wood that kept there from being a hole in the wall was very ornate from my side of it. It was painted with a pasty cream color that I'm sure they don't manufacture anymore. The edges of the door were textured with plaster to make little vines of English Ivy that were painted green. The paint must have faded since it was painted, as the green looked to be yellowing a little bit. The outside was nowhere near as nice. It only appeared to be an ordinary door made of oak with my room number, 414, on the wall beside it, to the left.

I rose out of the bed in which I was reclining, over the soft white sheets and comforter. It was one of those memory foam things, so it was a little hard to force myself up. I was awake, but thinking about, well, nothing, staring blankly at the syndicated television show with the psychiatrist. It was maybe ten past one in the afternoon, and the guest who sought the doctor's help was already in tears at the dysfunction of her family, of her marriage. I was trying my hardest to not care as I walked to the door in bare feet. The clean cream colored carpet was cold and crisp beneath my soles. My toes only dug in to it pleasantly, slightly. It wasn't shag, but it wasn't one of those commercial carpets that most hotels had. I guess I can say that with some certainty, as I had probably stayed in all sorts of places. That was one thing that was almost always the same. But I digress.

I must have been walking too slowly for the knocker's pleasing, as the beckoning from the outside became more fervent. "I'm coming, I'm coming." I yelled loud enough for the guy to hear. He stopped knocking, realizing by the changing volume of my voice that I was approaching the threshold. I reached the door and opened it.

"A letter for Mr. De Santa," the deliverer said. He was dressed like any bellboy in a fancy hotel, red blazer and all. His golden name tag only had his last name Parker.

"Thank you, I've been waiting for this," I said to him, grabbing the envelope out of his hand, about to shut the door.

"No tip?!" He demanded angrily.

"Oh," I said retreating into the room a little to get my wallet. When I came back out, leather wallet in hand I said, "Put a dry, fluffy towel in the tumble dryer to speed up your drying times, prick." I shut, more like, slammed the door. I didn't have time to entertain the ass. "Fucking millennial," I mutter to myself, before looking down at the envelope in my trembling hands.

The envelope itself was very plain. The top left of the envelope was labeled, as it should have been, with the name of the lab printed in plain text. It had my name and the hotel's name and my room in the center. I put it up to the light to see if one could read through it. One could, because that envelope was one of those security lines printed on the inside.

I looked around for a letter opener. I couldn't find anything that was intended for the purpose to open it so I looked for something that I could improvise with. A plastic butter knife would do. I grabbed it and stuck the flimsy white knife into the top of the paper enclosure. I ripped the paper sloppily and tossed the envelope aside.

I read the paper and I looked for the most important line. I was Subject A. Tracey was Subject B and Amanda was Subject C. I was so glad that I could get Amanda's DNA so easily. All I had to do was go to my house and get one of her brushes. I knew it was her brush because of the "Fuck Michael," carved so skillfully into the wooden handle. As I scanned for the most pertinent line, my mind was racing. If this was the wrong news I didn't know what the fuck I would do. I would kill someone. I found the line that I was looking for. "Subject C shares a large amount of genetic information (including an X chromosome) with Subject B, therefore Subjects B and C are close (1st degree) relatives. Subject A is male and would have to have contributed an X chromosome to B. Neither of the two X chromosomes match Subject A. Subject A therefore cannot* be the father of Subject B. *This by the test is 99.996% accurate and was performed three times to ensure precision."

There were more words, but the letters only looked like blotches of ink to my reeling mind. I was livid and now I had a call to make. I glanced at the bedside table, and seeing my phone, I walked angrily to it and grabbed the phone. It had been changing when I yanked it off the cord, but I didn't give a shit. I went to my speed dial and called one of the five people on the list.

"Hello," a Canadian asked. He usually started with, 'Hey, Sugartits'.

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me you noticed this earlier?" I must have been even louder than I thought I was, because one the guests in the neighboring room banged on the wall and said something about jetlag with an Australian accent. I didn't care about the words that were muffled by the wall. I did care about the man who said them.

Fuck him.

"Mikey, I like this tone you got going here. Reminds me of the old you, but I don't know what you're talking about, Sugartits." His voice was, for the second time since all of this started, in that pseudo-soothing tone that only rang in my ears like a wicked cat purring or a slithering serpent.

"You know what I'm talking about. Tracey not being my daughter, asshole."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about? That was just talk. I don't think that she could have really-"

"Well, Trevor she did. I took a DNA test and that is not my daughter."

"Shit, Mikey, I don't know what to say." Now he came off as sincere.

"I don't either," I hung up on him. What was I thinking calling him? I needed someone with a level head to talk to. I didn't need a methed out psychopath giving me any advice about something he could never, ever, achieve. So, I, being of less than sound judgment decided to call Franklin, before I marched over to my old house and…

"Franklin," I said after I got him on the line.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"It's… Trace ain't my daughter."

"Shit, man. How can you be sure?" His logic gears were turning, furiously.

"I had a DNA test done, and there ain't no way we can be related."

"I don't know what to say. I… Just talk to her." Franklin said,

"If I do I don't think that it'll just be talk. It'll be action. I don't know if I can trust myself alone in the room with her." I really didn't know if I could.

"Fine, tomorrow, noon, at my house. You two are going to sit at the ends of my couch and I'm going to sit in the middle. We're going to talk and hash this out." His voice reverberated with resoluteness even over the sound of the telephone. I knew I couldn't fight him on this. He had that same tone he had when he saved me from those Chinese mobsters after Trevor's stunt.

"Might as well just invite Jimmy and Tracey too," I muttered. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea, in fact, I was severely disgusted by the prospect of sitting in a room with my slut of a wife.

"Do you know what? You're right. You call Tracey. I'll call Jimmy and Amanda and we can see what your family's gonna look like next month." I knew that that was a comment about how dysfunctional and unstable our family was. In a way, he was completely right. Way before he met me, it was incredible the amount of times I was in or out of the house, or trailer or hotel room.

"Fine," I said. I'd give it a try

"Fine." He said, again having control over my life. He would handle it. He hung up first.

That was not going to be fun. Not at all.

Sadly, there are only a few chapters left in the story. Something new is in the works, so keep your eyes peeled.