I nodded. Octavia Guy would've already checked those timelines, but I wanted to be sure.
Boyd gestured to the exit. "I'll drive you back to the campground."
But something about being in a car with him felt overwhelming. The emotions of the night pressed down on me—the attack, the rescue, the DNA results.
"Actually," I said, pulling out my phone, "I should call someone. But thank you. You saved my life tonight."
Boyd studied my face for a long moment, then relented with a nod. "Alright. Goodbye, Bernadette."
I watched him leave, still processing his puzzling behavior. But after the thump to my head and the lack of sleep, my brain was sluggish. My fingers shook as I typed a text to Jett:I'm at St. Joseph Hospital ER. Can you come to pick me up?
His response was immediate:On my way.
I sank into a chair to wait. The night had been a nightmare, but at least one question had been answered.
Boyd Biggs wasn't my father.
Which meant I was back to square one, with time running out.
December 2, Tuesday
bottle shapethe design of the glass bottle, often unique to a brand or expression
THE VANfelt like a refrigerator. I sat cross-legged on my cot, wrapped in every blanket I owned, my breath forming little clouds in the air. The space heater I'd borrowed from Lou chugged away in the corner, doing its best against the cold that seeped through the metal walls. And the fact that I had to keep a window cracked for ventilation was working against me.
Suzy's voice sounded through my phone.
"So they arrested the weirdo, right?" she asked, disbelief coloring her words.
"Yeah. Teddy's being held on assault charges," I confirmed. "And when the police searched his vehicle, they found all sorts of things. He'd been stealing from people for months."
"Jesus, Bernadette. You could've been killed. Can you stay somewhere else?"
Jett's face came into my head. "A friend offered to let me stay at his house, but I'm okay. The detective told me Teddy couldn't post bail so he'll be in for a while."
"And I'm so sorry about Boyd Biggs. Are you sure about the results?"
I glanced at the manila envelope sitting beside me on the cot, the official laboratory seal already broken. "Got my copy this morning. Zero percent probability of paternity. Boyd's not my father."
"I'm so sorry. When I remembered that name, it felt so definite."
"It's not your fault. You were remembering something from thirty years ago." I traced the edge of the envelope with my finger. "Maybe Mom told you the wrong name. It doesn't matter now."
"Are you going to keep searching?"
The question hung in the cold air. I looked around my tiny living space—the cramped quarters that had been my home for six months, the evidence of a life lived on the margins.
"My lease on this campground spot ends December thirty-first. Besides, I have to go back to Arizona to finish school."
"I wish things had turned out differently for you."
"Yeah. Me too."
We talked for a few more minutes, then said goodbye. I sat in the silence, listening to the space heater's mechanical whir.
I repositioned to find a warmer spot, but something under my hip poked into me. I reached beneath the blankets to find a little black fabric bag I didn't recognize. The contents made my heart stop.
A tarnished silver bracelet.
