“Through the DNA website. You know, the one you send off your DNA and they send you your history?”
“I’m aware of such sites.”
“I did a lot of research on the science of this before I jumped in, and I used the DSR—that’s the Donor Sibling Registry—for advice, too. Anyway, right away I had a match that was, like, too close to be a cousin. It had to be a sister. I reached out, and she told me she was a donor kid. Several more had popped up by then. I sent them each a message, asked if they wanted to talk. It got unwieldy in the program, so I suggested we create our own server on Discord, where we could talk as a group.”
“So you did this publicly?”
“No, of course not. It’s a private server. It’s totally unfindable unless we give the link.”
“And you were the ringleader? You set all of this up?”
“I mean…technically?”
Darby sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t know whether to kill you or be proud, Scarlett. What have I told you about talking to strangers online?”
“These aren’t strangers, though. Not really. They’re my blood. They’re my siblings. We all have the same dad. We all want to meet him.”
“Not going to happen.”
Scarlett gives her mother a small smile. “Well, technically, it’s not your choice.”
Darby’s face darkens. “This isn’t about what I want or don’t, little darling. This is a legal issue. He—the donor—signed away his rights and was very specific that he didn’t want to be contacted by any potential offspring. You must respect that, Scarlett. You can’t meet him. He doesn’t want to meet you.”
“Harsh, Mom. You don’t know that. He might have changed his mind. He—”
“Is an anonymous donor. You know what the word means, yes?”
Scarlett bites her lip. Her mother isn’t usually sarcastic with her. Darby rubs the spot between her eyebrows with a thumb. She looks so tired. There are new lines around her eyes, and a sprinkling of silver in her curls. Scarlett puts a hand on her mother’s arm. The skin is papery and dry; she needs lotion.
“Listen, Mom, this is a bad situation, and I don’t want to fight with you. But I think we need to go to the police and tell them about the Halves.”
Darby drops her hand. “And paint a target on your back? No. Absolutely not.”
Then: “Who even figured out that there is a DNA match between someone in the group and Beverly Cooke? Tell me that?”
Scarlett sits back in her chair. “I don’t know. It was in my messages this morning.”
“You don’t know who that person is?”
“We’re all there under fake names. Just to keep us safe in case someone from our real lives gets wind of things before we’re ready to say anything.”
“Scarlett. Darling. This goes from bad to worse. Anyone can be posing as a sibling. Do you not get that?”
“Just…quit being so judgy. They can’t, we actually do have some controls. And it seemed smart at the time. There were some people who were worried about their names getting out on social media. I can probably cross-reference a few of them who I’ve gotten friendly with, just based on location and stuff. So we can check them out and see if they’re legit.”
“You can do that? You know how to track people on the internet?”
“Duh. It’s not exactly hard.”
“Scarlett Flynn, if I find out you’ve been doing anything illegal…”
“Mom. Seriously. People put their lives online. They aren’t hard to find.”
Her mother sighs, heavy and long. “We don’t need you playing detective. And we don’t need anyone in that group coming after you.”
“You’re right, we don’t. But Mom, if one of us is a killer, we have to tell the police.”
Those strong, capable arms cross on her chest. Scarlett is losing this argument.
“I don’t want you getting involved. Not until we know how that little tidbit got planted. It could be completely false, and you’ll open a can of worms that ruins lives.”
“I am already involved. We can’t pretend that I’m not. And you’ve always told me to do the right thing. This is the right thing.”
“Oh, Scarlett.”
Scarlett knows that tone. She’s worn her mother down and she’s won. She feels a spark of excitement, tries to keep herself in check. This is happening, it’s really happening. She’s going to find out who her father is. She can just tell.
“There’s probably a tip line,” Scarlett says, careful not to seem too ebullient. “Or we can just call the non-emergency number and tell them we have some information related to the Cooke case.”
“I should never have let you listen to those true crime podcasts,” Darby groans, but Scarlett already has her laptop open and is searching for the number she needs.
“Got it, here on the story from WSMV. They have the tip line. It says we can leave an anonymous tip. Would you rather me do it like that?”
Darby thinks for a moment. “Let’s just call and see what they ask. They’ll have your phone number regardless. If they want to hunt you down, they probably can. If people are as easy to track as you say they are.”
Scarlett ignores that crack, dials the number and puts her phone on Speaker.
“This is the right thing to do, Mom. I know it.”
11
THE DETECTIVES
Joey Moore closes the lid on her laptop and stretches. “I’m getting nowhere fast. I don’t think we’re going to get anything else out of Chapel Hill PD until tomorrow. Anything back from the family? I’d really like to have a chat with them. I know it’s been twenty-plus years since their daughter died, but you never know what they might have to say.”
Will checks his phone. “Nothing.”
“Want to call them again?”
He does, leaves another message. “Mr. and Mrs. Rich, this is Detective William Osley in Nashville again. I’d like to speak to you about your daughter’s murder. Please call me back.” He leaves his number and shakes his head. “That’s five messages and no returned calls. They might not want to rip open this wound.”
“I know. Let’s pick it up in the morning, okay? Maybe once we talk to Chapel Hill, they’ll reach out to the family and tell them our intentions are pure.”
Osley gnaws on a toothpick. His booted feet are up on the edge of her desk, so she has a great view of the tattered, scraped soles.
“Yeah, all right.” He doesn’t drop his feet to the floor. She waits. It’s quiet in the homicide offices today. She can hear the soft screech of a marker; someone is writing on a white board across the cubicles.
“What’s wrong now?”
Osley sighs. “That dude knows something.”
“Who, Bender? Oh, I agree. But about what? The kid? The girl from Chapel Hill? His wife?”
“I thought without the wife there he might cave and admit who he had the affair with.”
Joey senses a longer conversation about to break free. Some of their best ideas come when they’re just shooting the shit like this, so she indulges Osley, even though she’s tired as hell and just wants an old-fashioned and maybe a pile of spaghetti.