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Quaid

“ I want to see it. You can’t open my mail.

It’s against the law.” Nixon did what he could to barrel past his brother, but Flynn stopped him, putting him in a football hold.

The poor man dissolved into tears, vacillating between angrily shouted demands to grief over his missing child.

“My son… Where is my son… Genie… Tell Genie to come back… I can’t do this alone. Flynn, I can’t do this alone.”

“I know. I’m here.” Flynn did what he could to calm Nixon as I tore into the cardboard envelope that had arrived less than ten minutes ago.

News of another FedEx delivery had undermined the discovery of money transferring hands and family feuds.

The missing child superseded criminal code, especially considering this was how our unsub communicated, so I ignored Nixon’s threats of lawsuits and charges.

Zoey had taken Sparrow upstairs to get more craft supplies before the package arrived, so thankfully, the child was missing the drama in the kitchen. If the new officer had any sense and heard what was happening with Nixon, she would keep Sparrow up there .

Like before, the envelope contained a single sheet of folded paper.

Unlike the previous two times, it was not a note from our kidnapper.

I held a medical form. A specific type of medical form I was all too familiar with.

It was filled with columns and rows, numbers and collected data.

One column, titled Data Collected , listed locus and PI.

A second column, titled Child , consisted of allele sizes.

The final column was labeled Alleged Father and contained its own list of allele sizes.

Numbers filled the columns down the page, and certain ones were circled.

I’d seen these tests dozens of times throughout my career.

My heart thundered as I first skipped to the bottom of the report for the results.

One sentence stood out. Probability of Paternity: 99.9996%

But who?

Immediately, I returned my gaze to the top of the form only to find that all pertinent information regarding the processing lab, the date the test had been administered, the diagnostic center’s address, phone number, and anything about the person filing the request had been redacted with a thick black Sharpie.

I glanced at Aslan, who read over my shoulder, eyes wide.

At the same moment, Flynn lost control of his brother, and Nixon moved fast. With a roar of anger and pain, he tore the paper from my hand and skittered to the opposite side of the island.

I didn’t chase him. I didn’t see the point.

The truth would surface regardless, and it was going to hurt.

Nixon scanned the paper.

The pause that followed went on far longer than I expected.

For a beat, I wondered if he didn’t understand and steeled myself to explain, but no.

Nixon was not a stupid man. Unfortunately, when presented with something utterly incomprehensible amid a crisis, the truth refused to absorb no matter how plainly obvious the evidence was .

Tormented, watery eyes lifted from the results to me. If ever there was a man who looked utterly gut-punched, it was Nixon. I feared he was about to throw up.

The paper trembled in his hand. “What… What is this? What does this mean? Flynn, what does it mean?” He thrust it at his brother, who didn’t take it and only stared in pity at his crumbling sibling.

“W-what am I looking at?” Nixon’s voice wobbled.

He glanced between Flynn and me and Aslan like a lost child who wanted the nightmare to end.

When I didn’t answer, he turned to his brother, shoulders sagging, the earth quaking beneath his feet so strongly his knees wobbled.

“Flynn… Flynn… What’s going on? I can’t do this anymore. ”

Flynn reached out and steadied his brother with a firm grip on his elbow as he finally glanced at the form in Nixon’s hand.

He barely scanned it, sorting out the facts much faster than Nixon.

He let his brother lean on him as Nixon came apart.

Over his brother’s shoulder, Flynn asked a million questions with a single look.

I had no answers. It felt like a hurricane had swept through the middle of my case when we’d barely begun to put the pieces in order.

Aslan removed the paternity test from Nixon’s grasp and eyed me, silently seeking instructions, but I didn’t know which way to turn and needed to talk things out. Process.

Flynn agreed to stay with Nixon—the man was a wreck as the reality of the results and his subsequent upturned life sank in.

I found Zoey upstairs. She understood that she was to call me if anyone came or went from the house or if any more packages arrived. I made it abundantly clear that Sparrow was to be protected from Nixon’s trauma at all costs.

For a heartbeat, I watched Sparrow paging through a storybook, the Cabbage Patch doll on her lap.

Was the man in the kitchen truly her daddy, or did this discovery go deeper than we knew?

I asked myself if it mattered, and the answer was no.

Blood didn’t make a family, and no matter what that paper said, no matter what the truth, Nixon wasn’t any less distraught over his missing son.

Out front, Aslan redirected the hungry media mob as we beelined it for the Charger. When we were inside with the engine running, I withdrew my phone and called Jordyn.

“Where am I taking us?” Aslan asked as it rang.

“Headquarters. I need to think.” Plans had changed.

With the new discovery, I wasn’t sure what direction to take.

I felt like a hamster on a wheel, running in pointless circles and not getting anywhere.

Before I confronted Benedict Davis about the vast amount of money he regularly gave his daughter-in-law, I wanted to absorb the paternity test and what it meant for our case.

Our unsub was sending a powerful message, and we needed to listen.

For Crowley’s sake.

For Nixon’s.

Imogen’s disappearance felt far less random now, and wherever she’d gone, I had a stinking suspicion she could be in danger.

Jordyn answered right before her voicemail typically picked up. “That was fast. Did you already talk to Nixon and the grandparents?”

“No. Brace yourself. Plot twist incoming. While at the house, we got another delivery from our kidnapper. Are you still at headquarters?”

“Yes.”

“Stay there. I’m on my way. Get Costa and meet us at my desk. Have you let Jude and Clementine go?”

She sighed. “I had no reason to hold them, Quaid. I questioned them to death, but they gave me nothing valuable. Why?”

“So you learned nothing? ”

“Technically, no, but Clementine gave me a bad vibe, and you’re a bastard, by the way. When were you going to tell me you’d already talked to her?”

“When you brought it up. I figured you’d get more out of her than I did.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Be there in twenty.” I hung up and pinched the bridge of my nose. My brain was foggy from a lack of sleep, and the shadow of a headache settled behind my eyes.

Aslan touched the base of my neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscles. We didn’t speak as he drove. We didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ground me.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, closing my eyes.

“I’ll always be there for you, Quaid. We’ll get this motherfucker, then we’ll go have a baby.”

I smiled tiredly and checked my phone. No message from Bryn. Thank god.

***

The overhead fluorescent bulbs hummed in the silent bullpen as Costa and Jordyn examined the paternity results that had been delivered to the Davises’ late that afternoon.

It was close to five, and apart from Eric Travolta and his temporary partner working quietly at the far corner of the room, no one was around.

Aslan sat in my desk chair, legs sprawled, hands cradled behind his head—far too relaxed considering the circumstances. Costa balanced his ass on the edge of the desk, Jordyn beside him, while I paced and gnawed a thumbnail .

I gave them plenty of time to process before halting and facing them, hands on my hips. “Well? Thoughts?”

“It could be a fake,” Jordyn said, “to get the family riled up and fighting.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Are you saying our perp waltzed into a lab with Crowley, a missing kid, and had this done?” Jordyn flicked the page.

“The person doesn’t need to. They could easily bring a sample to the lab and make a request.”

“It would mean nothing. Chain of custody. Inadmissible in court.”

“I don’t think this person cares about that.

The point was to disrupt the family. Show their hand, and they know we can’t follow up because they redacted too much information.

We don’t know where they went, when they went, or what name to look under.

Even if we wanted to wager guesses and called every lab in the city, they wouldn’t give us anything without a warrant, and without a name, we can’t get one. ”

Costa handed the form back. “Assuming it was mailed by the same depot and by the same person or persons, we’re shit outta luck.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“I ran my program through the footage we received from FedEx for the day the first and second letter was sent and I got no hit.”

“You had it set to recognize faces belonging to any of the Davis or Walsh families?”

“The ones we’ve been focusing on, yes. If you have a distant cousin or great aunt I don’t know about who’s under scrutiny, then no. I also included Jude and Clementine. Nothing.”

“Shit. Did you do a manual scan?”

“Not yet. I didn’t have time since I was working on a warrant for Benedict’s finances and sweet-talking Doyle’s favorite judge into signing it. It’s approved, and no, I haven’t delved into dear old Benny’s bank accounts yet because, again, time.”

“Did she like your tattoos?” Aslan asked.

“No. She looked at me like I was a troublemaker.”

“You kind of are.”