Just another reason the idea that he’d left DNA evidence on not one, but two occasions felt more like the act of dangling a carrot to the police.
Catch me if you can.
Given the media coverage on the link between ancestry sites and crime data bases, why would he risk leaving behind evidence? Particularly if he knew he’d fathered a child? A child who ran a successful true crime blog. The concept made no sense.
More likely, he didn’t know about her.
“Are you certain you didn’t train with the FBI?” Rayna smiled. “You’d make one hell of a profiler.”
Lara laughed. She had heard this before. Lara’s degree was in psychology with a minor in criminal justice. She had known from the time she was twelve what she wanted to do. She wanted to dissect criminals, particularly those who murdered.
Did that make her strange? No question. She’d had few friends as a child because of this somewhat out of the ordinary fixation. Terry Wilson was one of the few who hadn’t considered her on the scary side.
“I did not, but I have spent a great deal of time dissecting killers.”
Rayna bit her lip, worry lining her face. “I’m sure you’re concerned that he’ll show up in your life.”
Lara hadn’t voiced this worry to Nate or even to herself. Thankfully she hadn’t received any more odd emails or text messages. Anyone could have finagled her cell phone number. Hard as she tried to protect her personal information there was always some relentless person who would discover her address or phone number. Quite regularly she received strange emails; it was the nature of the beast. The timing on these latest ones was the part that raised alarm bells.
“Since I learned the news…what? Three or four hours ago?” She sighed. “Yes, the idea has crossed my mind.”
“I’m certain you’ve also pondered the possibility that he may have known about you all along. If that’s the case, you might not hear from him. He hasn’t contacted you before, why would he do so now?”
“But,” Lara countered, “if he didn’t know, his curiosity may get the better of him.”
“Which is why Agent Decker’s primary concern is your safety,” Rayna said. “He’s torn between being loyal to the Bureau and to you. The two of you have been friends for a long while.”
“In a long-distance sort of way, yes,” Lara qualified. Evidently Terry had briefed his wife thoroughly.
“Terry thinks the FBI will want to use you as bait to lure in the Butcher.”
“I think that’s the plan.” Lara reminded herself again that she was good with this plan. “I’m certain they’ll want to release the information about the DNA link and that’s fine by me. If I can help bring him down, I would like very much to do so.”
“The notoriety would be good for your blog,” Rayna pointed out.
And the book, Lara kept to herself—assuming she ever finished it. “Unquestionably. But mostly, I’m curious. How did my mother meet and get involved with a killer? If he’s my father, who was the man who died as a soldier fighting in the Middle East? Or did he fake his death? Maybe put his dog tags on another man’s body—one he perhaps murdered.”
Rayna paused in her work of adding ice to the glasses. “I can see you don’t need me to psychoanalyze you.”
Lara laughed out loud at this. “Trust me, I’ve done enough of that in the past few hours for several lifetimes.”
“I can see how you might.”
Lara hesitated but then decided to go for it. “My father—at least the man I always believed to be my father—is buried in Maple Ridge. His services were conducted at Capshaw’s. Do you think there’s any chance records from so long ago might still be available? Photos maybe?”
“It’s possible,” Rayna offered. “Capshaw’s is locally owned and operated. The family has lived in Maple Ridge for as long as I can remember. In my line of work, I’m acquainted with a good number of funeral directors, including Greg Capshaw. I can certainly ask him.”
“I would really appreciate it.”
“I’m happy to help.” Rayna smiled. “Let’s call the guys. We should eat and allow all this to digest.”
Gathered around the Wilson family table listening to the men share war stories about their work, Lara studied Nate. So many times she had wondered what the man behind the phone voice and the emails and texts was really like. She knew basically all there was to know about him—at least what was available in the public domain. He had shared plenty about his private life with her just as she had with him.
He’d married his high school sweetheart and then divorced after barely four years. No long-term relationships since. Lara supposed their device-driven relationship was the longest for either of them.
He was as kind and charming in person as he was on the phone. The good looks were no surprise either. The two things she hadn’t fully anticipated were just how tall he was and how good he smelled.
Lara blinked. Not exactly the time to be thinking about his scent.
Then again, anything was better than obsessing on the idea that she was apparently the daughter of a serial killer.
How could she not have known this?
Suddenly, in the middle of the Davidson County Chief Deputy’s dining room, she felt as if she’d fallen into a rabbit hole.
Who was she really? Why had her mother never told her the truth? Had her mother known the truth?
Was DNA the reason she had always been so fascinated by murder?
The idea made her sick to her stomach.
“I know this is overwhelming.”
Lara glanced at the man behind the wheel as they drove along Miller’s Bend Road headed back to her little cottage—the place at which she’d felt so peaceful all these months. “It’ll take me a minute to adjust.”
He smiled.
His profile was strong. Something else to appreciate about the man. Maybe allowing her secret fantasies to take the lead just now was better than obsessing over her shared genetics with a heinous killer.
“You know,” she said, facing forward, “I’m really glad we finally had the opportunity to meet—circumstances notwithstanding.”
“I agree. We should have done this years ago.”
Years. It didn’t seem possible, but they had been friends for years. Lara felt as if she knew him as well or better than she did anyone else in her life and they’d never met until today. She rolled her eyes at the thought. The scenario sounded like a reality show episode. Just another aspect of her chosen career. She had many “online” friends with whom she had interacted for years without ever meeting.
Modern life, she mused.
But this was her life.
As much as she loved researching cases, being on the other side of the story wasn’t so thrilling. So much for distraction. She was hurtling back toward reality, leaving her little fantasy in the dust.
This wasn’t some other person—some poor victim—this was her.
And no matter how she looked at it, she was a victim now.
Of course, she didn’t have to do a segment on this new angle in her life but there would be no way of concealing the news once the FBI decided to make it all public. She could remain anonymous, but some savvy hack would dig until he found the truth. Why shouldn’t she capitalize on the reality? It was hers, after all. She had the inside story. The scoop.