Page 47 of Before You Go

“You listen to true crime podcasts?”

“Not normally.” He focuses on me as he comes to a stop at a red light. “But the woman who runs The Forgotten got ahold of the case I’m working on about a year ago and started looking into it. After doing her own investigation, she approached the department and paid for the DNA testing that we are using to bring charges against the person responsible for the murder.”

“Why didn’t the department pay for the testing?”

“Testing costs money, and typically, those funds are allocated to the most recent cases. Even then, the cops have to pick and choose which cases take precedence.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“That’s messed up,” I whisper.

“It is,” he agrees.

“So, what happens if a woman is raped? They could just choose that it’s not important enough to send off for testing?”

“I think they try to prioritize those cases, but that doesn’t mean some aren’t left behind.”

“Oh my God,” I breathe, and he reaches over, wrapping his hand around mine and squeezing before letting go.

“It’s fucked, and no one likes it, not even the cops who have to deal with it.”

“How do we change that?”

“Not sure it’s possible to change it, Franny. Each police department only gets so much money per year, and DNA testing is expensive, especially when you’re talking about using the newest technology.”

“But this girl with the podcast was able to pay for it herself?”

“She was.”

“So can other people just pay for DNA testing for cases that are being left behind?”

“Franny—”

“Yes or no, Dayton?”

“I guess. I’m not really sure how any of that works, babe.”

I don’t know when he decided to start calling me babe, but I like it way more than I should.

“Maybe I could talk to my mom about it, she’s always raising money for different causes.” I glance out the window as the city goes by in a flicker of lights. The idea that a woman—or anyone—can be hurt, and the only thing keeping the person responsible for hurting them from going to jail is the cost of a DNA test, makes me ill. I can understand that the system is messed up and that there is only so much money to go around, but in my mind, some things should be a priority.

“Have you thought about when you’re going to tell your dad about the baby?”

The question brings me out of my thoughts, and I feel sick for a different reason.

“No. I don’t know. Soon,” I say, and he laughs softly. “I’m glad one of us can laugh about it,” I mutter.

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, he could force me to tell him who the father is and then harass you until you give in to whatever demands he makes.”

“I’ve got some shit to work through, but I’m here. I’ll be here.”

“You have shit to work through?”

“I didn’t have the best childhood, and I don’t want that shit to ever touch our kid. So yeah, I have some shit to work through.”

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