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CHAPTER 7

Raleigh, North Carolina Wednesday, July 10, 2024

SLOAN WAITED ANXIOUSLY AS THE CLOCK TICKED AWAY SHE TRIED TO finish her write-up on the autopsy she had scrubbed in on that morning, but her mind refused to focus on the details of the overdose patient, the toxicology results, the weight of the spleen, or anything other than what James had discovered about her DNA profile. At 8:30 p.m. her doorbell mercifully rang.

“Hey,” she said when she opened the door. “Thought you got lost.”

“Sorry, running late.”

“Come on in. Want a beer or something? You’re old enough to drink, aren’t you?”

James smiled. “Do you need to see my ID?”

“I trust you.”

Sloan closed the door to her cozy one bedroom, which consisted of a small kitchen with a breakfast nook, a living area, and her bedroom.

“We can work at the kitchen table.”

Sloan rummaged through the fridge as James unpacked his laptop and a few papers from his rucksack.

“I’ve got Coors Light or a hard seltzer.”

“Coors, thanks.”

She handed James a can of beer and popped the top on her Lover Boy, sitting down across from him.

“Your phone call got me pretty anxious, I’m not going to lie,” Sloan said. “What did you find?”

James opened his laptop and quickly typed his password before looking at Sloan.

“I usually start consultations by asking questions about a client’s family. Since you were adopted, we don’t have access to that background info. That’s not a problem. I work with lots of adopted clients looking for their birth parents. But in your case . . .”

“Yes?”

“Your DNA profile,” James said, tapping on his laptop, “tells an interesting story.”

“Interesting, how?”

“Let’s start with what we know for sure. You’re adopted. Part of my services includes confirming this fact by doing a quick match of your DNA against your adopted parents and any Hastings family members. I don’t have access to your adopted parents’ DNA, but you gave me enough information about them to do some good research on the Hastings family in general. I created a partial family tree, and I can tell you for certain that you have no ancestral connections to the Hastings family.”

Sloan nodded. “We knew that, so what’s got you so concerned?”

James took a deep breath. “After I created your DNA profile and started matching it to users on the database, I found something . . . odd.”

James turned his computer so that Sloan could see the screen.

“My search shows that you’re a descendent of the Margolis family. My review and search for your biological relatives, combined with the matches that came up to your genetic profile, suggests that your birth name was Charlotte Margolis.”

Sloan squinted her eyes. “My birth name?” She shook her head. “What are you saying? My biological parents named me before giving me up for adoption?”

“I wish it were that straightforward.” James pointed to the screen. “Look, here’s how this works. I send your DNA profile out into the database to see if you match to any family members who are users of the genealogy website. Sometimes we get a hit to a distant relative like a third or fourth cousin, other times we hit pay dirt and match directly to your birth parents. In your case, your profile matched to Ellis and Nora Margolis. Ellis Margolis is your biological uncle. His wife, Nora Davies Margolis, is your aunt through marriage. So that makes Ellis your biological father’s brother.”

Margolis. Margolis. Margolis.

The name echoed in Sloan’s mind as if someone had rung a bell close to her ear.

“Nora Margolis,” James continued, “is very active on the online genealogy site. She’s made her profile public and has created an extensive family tree of both her own biological family and the Margolis family, which she married into.”

“Okay,” Sloan said, shaking her head. “So my DNA profile matched to Nora and Ellis Margolis. From there, you found my biological parents?”

“Correct. Your biological parents are named Preston and Annabelle Margolis.”

Sloan swallowed hard. Preston and Annabelle. She was entering a portal to her past she had never intended to explore and couldn’t fully comprehend the emotions that came with discovering her birth parents’ names.

She blinked several times to corral the tears that had welled in her eyes.

“But . . . so, how did you come to the conclusion that my birth name was Charlotte Margolis?”

“I did some digging into Preston and Annabelle Margolis, as well as their daughter. Charlotte was born May 11, 1995, in Cedar Creek, Nevada. Harrison County records have a copy of Charlotte Margolis’s birth certificate, listing Preston and Annabelle as the parents. A social security number was also on file.”

Sloan shook her head. “I don’t understand. If my biological parents gave me up for adoption, why would they have named me first? And why would they have registered me with the county, or whatever it’s called, to make it legitimate that I was their daughter? That makes no sense if they were giving me up for adoption.”

“That’s just it. Your parents didn’t give you up for adoption, Sloan.”

A brief spell of vertigo sent Sloan’s head spinning.

“Then how did I end up being adopted by my parents?”

James looked at her. “I don’t know. But according to Nora Margolis’s family tree”—he pointed again to his computer screen—“Preston, Annabelle, and their two-month-old daughter, Charlotte, disappeared on July 4, 1995.”

Sloan pulled the computer closer. “Disappeared?”

“Correct.”

James ran his finger across his monitor, where Nora Margolis’s family tree was displayed. Sloan followed his finger until she saw the names of her birth parents.

Preston Margolis = Annabelle Akers

|

Charlotte

(Family Missing, presumed dead, 1995)

“Presumed dead?” Sloan looked up at James.

James nodded. “Preston and Annabelle Margolis, along with their infant daughter, disappeared almost thirty years ago. According to every bit of information I’ve been able to get my hands on, they’re still missing today. And you’re their daughter.”