“Dad.”
“You promised.”
“I promised I would give it to her if you were sure.”
“I am.”
Lucas remained still.
“Lucas,” I said.
He looked at me.
There was kindness in his face.
And fear.
Not of me.
For me.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.
Unlike everything else in the suitcase, this document wasn’t old.
It was printed on white paper.
A laboratory report.
Dated six weeks earlier.
My eyes moved across numbers and words I didn’t understand.
Then I saw one phrase.
Probability of parent-child relationship.
I looked at Lucas.
“Whose test is this?”
He swallowed.
“Mine.”
“And whose else?”
He handed me the second page.
There were two samples listed.
Sample A: Lucas Ellis.
Sample B: Marianne Webb.
I frowned.
“You tested Marianne?”
“After my mother died, I tried to continue what she started.”
“You found her?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Ohio.”
“She agreed to a DNA test?”
