Page 51 of The Last Close Call

Rowan nodded. “Have you ever looked into it before? Gone on any genealogy sites?”

“No.” She looked down at her hands. “I never took the time. And, to be honest with you, with the adoption situation, I just...” She sighed. “I haven’t wanted to go there. It’s something I haven’t given much thought to in years, but then when my father died...” She shook her head. “It made me think about everything differently. Death has a way of crystalizing things.”

Rowan didn’t respond, sensing she had more to say.

Joy picked some lint off her pants. “To give you some background, I lost contact with my dad’s side when I went to live with my aunt, and I pretty much decided good riddance. I never wanted to see anyone again, especially my father. He was—” She looked out the window, her expression tight. “Well. Let’s just say he was a piece of work.”

A tense silence hung in the air, and Rowan didn’t fill it. She’d learned not to rush people grappling with a painful past.

Joy looked at her and seemed to shake off the moment. “So, what do you think?”

“There’s a lot we can learn through DNA. It’s a useful tool for people whose family ties aren’t necessarily intact.”

Joy laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“Are you willing to do a DNA kit?”

“I haven’t decided.” Her brow furrowed. “I want to know whether I can keep my results private. Is that even possible now?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘private.’ But generally speaking, there are some things you can do.”

Joy looked down at her hands. “In that case, Rowan, I would like to hire you.”

***

Bryan watched the fence posts rush by. “I think we should try it.” He looked at Jack. “What do we have to lose?”

Jack kept his focus on the road. He wore his mirrored shades, but Bryan had no trouble reading his reaction.

It had been twenty-four hours since Rowan Healy had shown up at the police station with the name of some crack PI she knew who was supposedly good at skip tracing. But Jack didn’t want to bring in another outsider. Maybe he was worried about the media fallout if this thing leaked to the press.

“It’s been almost two weeks,” Bryan said, meaning since Amber Novak had been murdered.

Jack knew exactly what he was referring to, and he also knew the implication—that not only was the trail getting cold, but William Anderson might be zeroing in on his next target by now. Yet still, Jack wouldn’t budge on using outside help.

Jack checked his phone. “This is it,” he said, swinging a right onto a narrow road.

Shaking his head, Bryan looked out the window at the scrub brush. They’d driven north of town to talk to a retired fire chief, which—as far as Bryan was concerned—was a big waste of time. Until and unless they got a bead on William Anderson, anything else was pointless.

They passed a few spread-out houses and then Jack slowed beside a mailbox. He checked his phone and turned onto a gravel driveway leading to a modest one-story. An old white pickup was parked near the detached garage, and Jack pulled their unmarked police unit into the space beside it.

“I think we’re wasting our time here.” Bryan pushed open his door. “We should try that PI.”

“If this doesn’t work, maybe we will.”

Bryan slid from the car and looked at Jack over the roof, surprised. Maybe he was finally getting through.

Jack glanced at the front door but then looked at the garage, where country music drifted from an open door.

“He said he was home working on something.” Jack crossed the driveaway toward the garage, and Bryan followed him. Suddenly, the music was drowned out by the buzz of a power tool.

They stepped into the garage, where a white-haired man was bent over a worktable with a sander in his hands. The air smelled of sawdust and mineral spirits.

The man glanced up. Straightening, he put the sander aside and switched off the radio.

“George Ackerman?” Jack asked.

He tugged a red bandanna from the pocket of his jeans and wiped the sawdust off his face. Then he came around the table, and everyone exchanged introductions.

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