Back in her car Georgia unwrapped the pastry and took a huge bite. The baked apple, tart and gooey, combined with the crisp, sweet topping was delicious. She savored the taste and mulled over what she’d learned. It wasn’t a sure bet, but it was looking like Benny’s was the only restaurant using the wrap that “Savannah” had written on. Which meant, assuming the note was genuine, that Savannah might be connected to the warehouse in the West Loop.
She took another bite of pastry. She could trace the owner of the warehouse when she got home, see who popped up. Now, though, she needed to concentrate on her driving. The snow had intensified and was falling at a steady rate. Visibility was practically nil. Traffic was at a standstill on I-294, so she tried going east on surface streets. Still, the drive from Oakbrook to Evanston took more than two hours. By the time she pulled into a parking spot near her apartment, the apple crumb cake was long gone and the snow was dancing horizontally across the streetlights.
She pulled up her collar, braced herself, and slogged to the door of her building. She stopped to retrieve her mail. A few bills, but also an unfamiliar white envelope. She turned it over. The return address was “Precision Labs.” She sucked in a breath. The DNA results. She fingered the envelope. Thicker than one page, but not much more.
Inside she put the envelope on her desk. She carefully took off her coat, hat, and gloves and hung them up, as if she might need to remember exactly what she did and when she did it. Then she started to pace around her apartment.
The truth could hide—she’d known that as a cop and knew it now as a PI—but eventually it worked its way to the surface. It might take years. Even a lifetime. But what would she do if she did know the truth? If Savannah and she were related, it would require a fundamental rearrangement of her emotional life. Her mother had borne another daughter. She had a sister she’d never known.
But did that mean she was supposed to be her sister’s savior? And if so, for how long? What if she couldn’t stand the girl? Where were the rules for that? And who the hell wrote the handbook?
She let out a long breath, stopped pacing, and went back to her desk. She picked up the envelope and ripped it open. Two pages fell out. She scanned the first page, a chart titled “Sibling Report (Half vs Unrelated)—Legal Test.” On the left were a series of incomprehensible letters and numbers under the heading “Genetic Markers.” Across from each marker were two columns headed by the words “Allele A” and “Allele B.” Underneath those columns were more numbers. Finally on the right was a column titled “Likelihood Ratio” with yet more numbers, although they were smaller than the others.
She had no idea what all the numbers meant and skipped to the second page, which included the interpretation. She read through a paragraph of qualifications, which basically said the absence of the birth mother’s DNA prevented them from drawing a more definitive conclusion. She bit her lip. The report went on to say that a ninety-one percent probability was considered the lowest possible level for which one could say two individuals were related.
“Okay, okay,” she muttered. “What’s the bottom line?”
The last two lines told her. “Based on the genetic results, the alleged half siblings are 23,780 times more likely to be related as half siblings than to be unrelated. The Probability of Relatedness as Half Siblings is ninety-five point five percent.”