Page 23 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

23

ERICA

“ T hat’s a wrap! Very good, Ms. Connors. We’ll notify you later this week.”

Alfred Jenkins’s voice cuts through the studio’s dimly lit space. There’s a finality to his words that I’m not sure how to take, but his smile, along with the sound engineer’s approving nod, suggests I left an impression. That should be a good thing. It should feel like a victory.

I should be on a natural high. I poured my heart into every song, every line. Given them everything. My voice, my emotions, my soul. Adele’s Someone Like You , Bonnie Tyler’s Holding Out for a Hero both songs that fit me like a second skin. They carry the weight of things I can’t say outright. I’d done well, well I think I did.

This is the music industry, though, and nothing is guaranteed. No matter how good you are, rejection is always lurking, waiting to remind you that talent alone isn’t enough. I leave the studio behind, trying to come up with something to fill the time while I wait. Something to keep my mind off of him .

Stacy is working, so she’s a no go. I’ve got nothing to do, so I go shopping. It’s mindless and empty, but in between a parking lot adventure and navigating crowded stores, the time passes until my phone buzzes. I glance at the caller ID, Biotech DNA Lab . My stomach clenches, this is not the phone call I was hoping for.

The woman is polite, professional, and coldly distant. Though the results are in, she won’t give them to me over the phone. Client confidentiality. Lab credibility. Rules. Policies. All barriers between me and the truth. I could push, demand answers, but she’s following orders and all that would accomplish is me being a jerk.

I pay for the new sweater I’d picked out and then make the drive to the office. I’m led through stark white halls. The sterile scent of antiseptic clings to the air. Scientists in crisp lab coats pass by, murmuring to one another, unaware and uncaring about the storm raging inside my heart. A small, bitter part of me wonders if I’m wasting my time. If this is just another dead end in a life full of them.

Helena’s ridiculous theory plays in my head like an unwanted song on repeat. My parents alive? Alive and watching over me from a distance like some twisted fairy god parents instead of my real, honest to god ones? Hiding for reasons I can’t possibly understand? It’s insanity.

They aren’t ghosts. They aren’t some secret protectors lurking in the shadows. They were just… gone. They died. End of story. And yet, here I am. Chasing an answer I already know.

I follow the person into a smaller office. The room’s walls are the same sterile white, with a white desk, just to add to the effect of how sterile this place is. A chipper blonde wearing a lab coat sits behind the desk.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Connors,” she says with a polite smile, motioning for me to take a seat in the chair before the desk. “I have your results right here.”

I sit in the offered chair and she slides a thick, white envelope across the counter. Her nails are neatly manicured, French tips colored in a soft beige that doesn’t conflict with the sterile white of the coat or the space.

“Thanks,” I mumble as I take it.

The paper feels heavier than it can possibly be, like the truth inside is a weight pressing down on my fingers. Exhaling slowly, I peel the envelope open and extract the pages. There is so much data on the reports, charts, endless columns of data I can’t decipher. Science was never my strong suit, and even if I was to ask, I don’t want to waste time pretending I care about how it all adds up. I only want the answer. Are they or aren’t they?

I flip through the sheets, searching for the number that will shut all of this down, that will prove Helena and Sam wrong. That will confirm what I already know . But then?—

Roberta Connors: 0% Match

Dennis Connors: 0% Match

My pulse stops and my stomach twists into a gordian knot. The room tilts as the words burn into my brain.

“Oh, God…”

It’s not possible. It’s a mistake. A lab error. A mix-up with someone else’s results. But no matter how I try to convince myself it’s wrong, I know. The truth on this paper is cold and unyielding. The bodies in those coffins aren’t my parents. They never were.