I let out a grunt that I hoped communicated assent and let my head fall back to his thigh.
“You can sleep more if you want to,” he told me.
“Nah,” I replied, snuggling up to his leg.
I watched some guy skin a fish on the screen.
“My DNA didn’t match,” I said.
“I assumed as much,” Elliot replied.
“It’s still related to us, though,” I told him.
“So it could be your father?”
“Or one of mom’s siblings, maybe. Or a cousin. But no more distant than that.”
“The bloodandthe saliva?” Elliot asked.
“Yeah. Both were from the same person. Shifter.”
He was silent, still stroking my hair.
“I think… I think it’s probably my father’s,” I said, then, softly.
Elliot’s hand stilled, but he left it on my head.
“And I think…” I blew out a heavy breath, remembering how my father had always seemed so quick and so strong. As a kid, you don’t think about it much, because all adults are so much bigger and faster and stronger than you are. But I wondered. And maybe it was my memory playing tricks on me, but now I wasn’t so sure. “I think he might be a shifter.”
“The DNA suggests that, doesn’t it?” Elliot replied, his voice even.
“I mean, I think he always was. Or at least, I think he was when I was a kid, too.” The words were stretched, strung like over-tightened guitar strings, ready to snap at the slightest touch. “Which means—” I swallowed back the threatening return of my Chinese food, then pushed myself up to sitting, although I didn’t turn to look at Elliot. I wasn’t sure I could. Not right now.
The hand that had been on my head now rested on my back, letting me know he was still there. Still listening.
“He knew what was happening to Noah,” I continued, when I managed to get myself under control. “He knew, and he was going to just let himsuffer.” I swallowed around the tears that were tracking their way down my cheeks. “He was willing to let himdie.”
Elliot said nothing, but the hand on my back rubbed a gentle, slow circle.
“He killed her,” I said, then.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered.
After several more minutes, I spoke again. “And he’s not dead.”
Elliot drew in a long breath, then let it out. “Should I call Hart again?”
“Probably,” I answered.
“Jesus fuckingChrist in a chicken basket, Mays, what thefuckis wrong with your family?!”
Elliot made a soft sound that indicated he was displeased.
“Everything, apparently,” I replied miserably, not bothering to comment on his extremely creative combination of food and religious figures.
“Present company excepted, of course,” Hart emended.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I muttered.
