Page 3 of 2nd Strike
“Look, Ethan, inaccuracies crop up from time to time. The legitimate testing companies do their best to provide accurate information, but samples get contaminated, software glitches occur, or there can be a biological element that doesn’t jive, and just needs further analysis.”
“Like what?” There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Have you studied chimeras in biology class?”
He shakes his head.
I give him a Charlie Schock assignment. “Go home and look up genetic chimeras. There’s a famous trial case—Lydia Fairchild. Tests proved her children weren’t biological matches even though she claimed they were. Eventually, prosecutors discovered she carried two sets of DNA—weird, right? But it’s possible, and that type of thing can screw up results. I’ll look into the lab and verify their procedures, but the thing I recommend is running a new test at a different facility and comparing the results. That’ll require consent from your parents and samples from all of you again.”
He reaches for the backpack and withdraws a paper and a plastic zipper bag with three hairbrushes in it. “I have the original consent form and hair from all of us.”
Smart kid. “Sorry, but no. I need new consents, but let’s not do anything until I talk to the lab and look into possible reasons the results don’t match, okay? Go home, stop worrying—there’s a simple answer to this—and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
"But—"
His protest is cut off by a sharp dinging from my phone. The security camera out back has caught someone pulling into the parking lot. I open the app and watch as JJ Carrington parks and gets out of his big, black SUV. He saunters to the back door, waving at the camera.
I shut off the alarm and sigh.
Meg sits forward, her face creasing with concern. “What is it?”
It was only two days ago when Billy Ray walked into our offices as if he owned the place. I'm not the only one whose paranoia is going crazy right now.
“Nothing," I lie. JJ is the U.S. attorney for D.C., and some days I swear he can read my mind as easily as Meg. Have I somehow conjured him up by thinking about this case?
At my sister’s distressed look, I ease her mind. “It’s JJ.”
The man is my Achilles' heel. My body gives a little cheer seeing him, and I curse under my breath. “I’ll be back in a moment."
At the door, I unlock it but only open it far enough to speak to him. “What?"
Over six feet with dark hair and eyes the color of a perfect summer sky, he gives me a sexy grin. "Can I come in?"
"Meg and I were just on our way out."
"I swung by your place and you weren't there. Just wanted to make sure everything is okay."
Right. I can read his mind too. He wanted to see if I’d let him stay the night. "Everything's fine." Another lie, but I'm not ready to tell him about Ethan. “I’ll call you tomorrow."
Without another word, he grabs my hand, and pulls me out the door and into his arms. “I can’t wait until then.”
2
Meg
While my sister is busy doing whatever it is the two of them do, I study Ethan’s face. His chestnut hair falls below his ears and curls at his neck. His eyebrows are dark, an exact match to his hair, and his deep brown eyes hold the misery of a teenager lost in too many thoughts.
I give him a gentle smack on the shoulder. “Ethan, we’ll figure this out. Between Charlie and me, we know enough DNA experts to form a summit.”
For a few seconds, he plucks at the leg of his jeans, his gaze fixed on his moving fingers like locked-on radar. He won’t look at me and I suspect he’s holding back tears. Proud young man. Probably also terrified. He has a right to whatever roller coaster of emotions he’s feeling right now. His world has been flipped, his identity along with it.
Before I speak, I take a second to consider the situation. This, even for the Schock sisters, is a new one. Add in the exhaustion that comes from surviving a psycho killer’s attack and I’m hardly at my best.
Ethan’s father is a nationally known newscaster turned morning show host. At seven each morning, Americans welcome Carl Havers into their lives. A respected journalist who’s visited war-torn countries, interviewed presidents, kings, and bombing victims, Carl stopped chasing big stories after Charlie and the FBI brought Ethan home almost eight years ago. In an effort to rebuild his family, he walked away from the adrenaline rush— and awards—that came with groundbreaking stories opting instead for a seat at the anchor desk. Now he’s home each night. For his son, who he’d missed years with.
For that, people love him.
His looks don’t hurt. A classic heartthrob, his borderline Greek God features send housewives everywhere into fantasyland each morning.
