Elliot Crane
Do you want me to meet you there, instead?
I do have my key, though.
Not sure how long it will take.
I don’t mind waiting.
I’ll feel bad. Just do whatever, and I’ll text you.
Okay.
Love you.
I madeit up the last step to Humbolt’s office, opening the door to find his administrative assistant, Michelle, sitting at the front desk. There were four doorways off this lobby—one to Humbolt’s office, one to Mallard’s, one to the single bathroom, and one to alittle staff kitchen, from where Michelle had gotten me coffee the other day.
Michelle, a woman about Humbolt’s age with dyed brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin, and carefully—and tastefully—done makeup, looked up. Her eyes crinkled in a smile over her embroidered pink mask that matched the color of her flowy shirt. “Just a few minutes, Mr. Mays. Mr. Humbolt is just finishing a call.”
I nodded and sat down in one of the two chairs available for that purpose.
“Coffee?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
I sent a quick message to Lulu, just checking to see how they were doing. I never used to like Lulu, but I guess I’d stopped being a jealous jerk about my twin when I’d finally stopped trying to cling to Noah as the only person who really loved me for me. Because I’d moved to Shawano and stood on my own two feet for at least a couple months, and then found someone else who wanted me just as I was, scars and aches and all.
“Mr. Mays.” Michelle’s voice cut into my thoughts. “You can go in.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
I stood and walked to Humbolt’s office door, deliberately forcing myself not to limp. It was half-habit, half-vanity, but it was a way to pretend that I had any control whatsoever over the situation.
I closed the door behind me, then came to sit across from Humbolt at his desk.
“Mr. Mays, how are you?”
“No offense, Mr. Humbolt, but I don’t think you want an honest answer to that question.”
He sighed. “Fair enough, Mr. Mays. Fair enough. I have some news I thought you would be interested in hearing.”
“Oh?” My pulse sped up, and I wondered if this had to do with my mother’s will or her murder.
“I put in a few calls to some friends in the DA’s office, and I was informed this morning that your twin’s DNA was not a match for the saliva and blood found at the scene. In fact, both saliva and blood came from the same person—who was not your twin.”
I felt relief—not because I thought Noah had been guilty, but because now there was evidence to prove what I already knew. “Are they releasing him?” I asked.
He sighed. “Unfortunately, no. My understanding is that they have amended the charges from first-degree murder to accessory and conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Accessory to fucking whom?” I demanded, then felt my neck flush. “Sorry.”
Humbolt had looked momentarily startled, but then his features settled into something sympathetic. “Your reaction is completely understandable,” he replied, waving a hand. “And I find myself in agreement with the sentiment.” He cleared his throat. “I believe you may be getting a visit from them, as well, as the DNA result showed a familial match.”
I blinked.
“Afamilialmatch—” he began.
“I’m a forensic specialist, Mr. Humbolt,” I interrupted. “I know what it means.” I frowned. “Momma’s letter said something about a sister…”
