Page 27 of The Paternity Puzzle

“Do you want me to attempt a foreign accent to make this more entertaining?” Royce asked. “I won’t be nearly as good as your favorite audiobook narrators.”

Sawyer laughed. “Just read it.”

While he diced vegetables for egg white omelets, Royce read an accounting of horrific behavior spanning forty years. He sucked in a breath and then cursed.

“What?” Sawyer asked.

“Felix claims the doctor fathered nearly five hundred children in forty years and points out that there could be hundreds more who’ve never taken DNA tests.”

Sawyer nearly sliced off a finger with that staggering revelation. He set the knife on the counter and faced Royce. “Almost five hundred? He told us about forty-eight.”

“Those were just the ones he’d traced to the doctor’s Savannah practice. There are four hundred and eighty-two confirmed matches as of now,” Royce said. “That breaks down to twelve children a year. What’s the likelihood he kept to one fraudulent insemination a month?”

Sawyer leaned back against the counter. “It’s not likely at all. I’m not an expert in psychiatry, but there is surely a term for someone like him. Narcissist doesn’t sound severe enough for someone who willfully procreated with unsuspecting women. He was a damn predator. Was he trying to create a super race of people like him?” Sawyer’s fears from earlier rushed to the forefront of his mind, but he shoved them aside before theycould drag him down like a dangerous undertow lurking beneath the surface. “What else does the article say?”

“The number of victims is really the only thing Felix didn’t touch on last night. I’m sure there will be more to come in the podcast and follow-up segments for the paper.” Royce set the tablet down and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, what a mess.”

“I can’t imagine what his wife or daughter must be feeling. Surely someone in their inner circle has read the article this morning and told them about it.” Sawyer met Royce’s gray eyes across the kitchen. “If neither of them killed him, they’re going to wish they had.”

Royce’s phone rang before he could respond. He looked at the device and said, “It’s the commissioner. Top brass on a Sunday morning is never a good thing.” He tapped a button on the phone before greeting Commissioner Rigby. “I’d bet a thousand dollars you aren’t calling to get Sawyer’s recipe for strawberry and cream scones.”

A dry laugh crackled through the phone’s speakers. “You should’ve bet ten thousand,” she replied. “Though the recipe sounds delicious. Are you at home?”

“Yes, ma’am. I have you on speakerphone, but it’s just Sawyer and me.”

“Morning, ma’am,” Sawyer said.

Rigby greeted him warmly before getting down to business. “I’ve received a phone call from both the mayor and the Matisses’ family friend, a retired lawyer named Richard Todd. Alyssa and Julia Matisse are aware of accusations stated in Felix Franklin’s article. They are understandably in shock and in denial. Richard Todd has asked that you hold off on speaking with them further until they’ve had some time to process another devastating blow. He’s asked for a meeting at nine on Tuesday morning at their home.”

“What did Mayor Barclay say?” Royce asked.

“He mostly repeated what Richard Todd had already requested, but I could tell he was on a fishing expedition to see what we knew about Dr. Matisse’s death.”

Royce snorted. “Of course he was. What did you tell them?”

“Based on the information I received from Mendoza last night, I didn’t see a reason to push the issue today,” Rigby said. “I agreed to honor their wishes unless we received concerning updates from the medical examiner.”

“I agree with you,” Royce told her. “Fawkes told me it might be a few days before she has preliminary reports to share.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Rigby said. “The mayor is adamant there won’t be signs of foul play, and Richard Todd wants to shelter his friends from undue speculation and suspicion. Both had planned to call Dr. Fawkes after speaking to me to apply pressure. I wouldn’t leave town if I were you.”

“Now I feel like a suspect,” Royce teased.

“Sorry,” Rigby said. “I didn’t mean to sound so ominous. My gut just tells me the Matisse death won’t be as cut-and-dry as Todd and Barclay hope.”

Sawyer had the same feeling of foreboding, but that probably had more to do with the personal fears this case triggered.

“Don’t worry about me, ma’am.” Royce’s steely gray eyes never wavered from Sawyer’s face. “I’m going to enjoy the rest of the holiday weekend with my family and not give this case another thought until someone gives me a reason to.” Royce might’ve said those words in response to Rigby’s comment, but Sawyer knew he was the intended target.

“Good to hear. I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything new, and I ask that you do the same.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Royce disconnected the call and set the phone on the table. He stood up and crossed the room to stand in front of Sawyer.“I meant what I said. We’re not letting this son of a bitch ruin our dreams or even taint our weekend. Maybe I get called in, and maybe I don’t. I sure as hell will not waste precious time by worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet.” He kissed Sawyer hard on the mouth and then moved to the pantry. “You make the omelets, and I’m going to whip up a special treat.”

Sawyer watched his husband remove ingredients from the pantry and set them on the counter. He tried to guess the surprise from the items and had landed on pancakes until Royce placed a bottle of white vinegar on the counter. “What in the world are you up to, Ro?”

“Buttermilk pancakes. Aunt Tipsy taught me how to make them.”