The new email pings almost immediately, the subject line four question marks, the message short.
Half sister? What?
Hi! I’m Scar. Yes, you’ve matched to me because we share a biological father through sperm donation. I don’t want to upset you with this news, but there are quite a few of us. We have a support group on Discord. If you give me your info I’ll send you an invite. This is going to be very overwhelming for a while—trust me, I know—but we’re a super chill group and it’s been amazing learning more about each other.
She pauses. Should she tell her all of it? No. It’s enough of a shock to find out you have multiple halves without learning one of them is a murder suspect.
Let’s start with something easy, though. What’s your name and where are you from?
Nothing.
Not unusual, to start.
If the person isn’t looking for siblings on purpose, the shock of the news can be upsetting. Some of the kids are searching, with and without permission, but some have no idea they’re the result of sperm donation, so not only are their worlds being blown up, the lives of their parents are upended, too.
Using her compromised account, she logs into the Halves group. The chatter has slowed since the news of the murder. Not a huge surprise, since no one knows who did it, and one of them is a part of this group. But she has a DM, from Jezebelle.
Jezebelle: Do you have any idea who it might be?
Scarfly414: No. But the police are looking. We should lay low until they catch whoever it is.
Jezebelle: Our brother. Until they catch our brother. This is freaking me out.
Scarfly414: Has your mom said anything else about the case? Oh, there’s a new match, too, another girl. She’s my age.
Jezebelle: Another? Wow. No, all I know is they think the suspect broke into a couple of places. They’re saying they have a sketch of him, will be on the news tonight. Full-on search getting ready to start. It’s wild.
Scarfly414: Have you seen the sketch?
Jezebelle: No. Gotta go. Something’s happening. Talk later?
Scarfly414: Yeah.
She looks at her watch, almost four. She should go home. Her mom took the week off work to handle this “situation,” as she calls it, so she’ll be there waiting, face pinched and hard. Scarlett hates hurting her, but it’s too late to back off now.
Especially if there’s a chance to identify who killed that woman.
Just as she is logging off, another message pops up.
Jezebelle: Holy shit. Another chick is missing.
Scarfly414: What?
Jezebelle: This is terrifying me. I need to log off for a while.
Scarfly414: Stay in touch, okay?
Scarlett’s phone rings. She’s not allowed to use it in the library, so she bundles up her things and scoots out the back door into the parking lot. The missed call log shows it was her brother calling. She gets into her car and calls him back.
“Peyton! Hi!”
“Hey, sis. You okay? Mom said you’ve stepped in it.”
“God. Yes. She’s so pissed at me.” She fills him in, how she sent off the swab, how she’s pulled together all the siblings, the rules they were following. “I was supposed to ask you for your DNA, even though I know we’re only halves ourselves. It’s to map the whole family so no one, like, accidentally marries someone they are closely related to.”
“Gross,” Peyton says. “No problem, I’ll give you a sample. Listen, go easy with Mom, okay? She’s having a hard time with this.”
“I am, too.”
“I know you are, Scar. It’s going to be okay, though. I promise.”
“It’s just all so freaky. And now another woman is missing.”
“I haven’t heard anything about that,” he says sharply, and she kicks herself.
“Insider information.”
“If someone else was missing, the police would be all over it. Be careful, Nancy Drew. Just because some strangers say they’re related to you doesn’t mean they actually are. Have you met any of them?”
“Only online. And that’s not how this works. They can’t fake a DNA match.”
“Still, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. Anyone could be lurking around. I think it’s time for you to step away from this, Scar. This is serious.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.” And then she’s crying, and embarrassed to be falling apart. Peyton does what he’s always done, sings a little. John Lennon. “Imagine.” Her favorite lullaby. He has a good voice, always has. It calmed her as a kid, and it calms her now. She snuffles to a stop, wipes her face and nose.
“Thanks, Pey. You’ve always known how to make me feel better.”
“Of course. Listen, Scar. I might be out of touch for a couple of days. I have a trip planned with some friends, we’re going camping this weekend.”
“Didn’t you go camping a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah. It was cold as shit but a lot of fun. We’re going to the Blue Ridge this time, so my phone probably won’t work. It’s all going to be okay, yeah? Just be nice to Mom, and I’ll talk to you next week, okay? Love you, Scar.”
And he’s gone before she can say she loves him back. She texts him quickly, a heart emoji.
You’re the best brother ever.
The reply is immediate.
Another text, right on its heels.
Are you heading home soon? Momxx
Scarlett sends back OMW, double-checks the Focus mode is on so she doesn’t get any alerts while driving, and puts the car in gear. Without traffic, it only takes a few minutes to get to the house from school, and fifteen later, she turns onto her street, narrowly avoiding clipping a car parked right by the stop sign. No one’s supposed to park there; the hydrant has a sign. Thank God she had her foot on the brake when she made the turn, or she would have crashed right into them. Her heart races, and she pulls into the driveway with the sense that she’s just avoided one of those horrible moments that will change her life forever.
She gets out of the car and debates walking up the street to tell whoever was stupid enough to park right on the edge of the intersection to find someplace else, but as she watches, the car starts to slide away.
Idiot.
More important things to deal with. Another missing woman means everything is going to get frantic, and scary, and honestly, she’s glad to be home, where she’s safe.
The car from the corner stops at her driveway. In it, she can see a man. He is staring at her, brows furrowed, and without warning, he guns it, and the car squeals away.
She watches him go, not sure what to make of it. A creeper?
A killer?
Thoroughly freaked out, she bolts for the house.
25
THE HUSBAND
Park drives the city for a while before making up his mind. He can’t help himself. The fear he’s feeling, the sense of dislocation he felt watching Olivia drive away, is making him reckless. He wants to see the kid. He wants to see his daughter.
He has the address on the slip of paper in his wallet, though he doesn’t need to look, he’s already memorized it. He puts it into his phone. Belmont is only ten minutes from his location; he’s there before he’s decided exactly what he is planning to do or say.
He stops down the street from his daughter’s house, and broods. A terrible sense of doom lingers deep in his bones, has since he left the police station. He didn’t like how the cops looked at him, as if he were hiding something. He isn’t—he has nothing to do with Beverly Cooke’s murder—but the very nature of his previous experiences with law enforcement makes him jumpy around all cops. How could it not? When you’ve been a murder suspect, every interaction is tinged with fear. The idea of being incarcerated, of having his life taken from him, even now, fills him with a deep sense of horror. So close. He’d been so close to arrest, to being blamed.