‘A twenty-five per cent match? What does that mean for us?’

Rob and Rachel were sitting in a fast food concession in the San Francisco International Arrivals area, both of them no-shows for the flights they had been about to catch. A plastic basket of fries sat between them, and they were taking it in turns to pick at them, even though the food was cold and unappetising.

‘Okay, so from what the guy told me, only an identical twin shares one hundred per cent of an individual’s DNA.’ Rob took a gulp of his soda. ‘A parent or full sibling shares fifty per cent. For twenty-five per cent it’s going to be either a grandparent—’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Exactly. Or an aunt or uncle.’

‘I suppose that’s possible. If they were young enough.’

‘Otherwise it’s either a half-sibling or a first cousin.’

Rachel stirred her paper cup of watery coffee with slow, deliberate movements as she absorbed this. ‘So, let me get this straight: the woman whose DNA was found on that lipstick and also the dress and shoes from the shampoo shoot, is either a cousin or a half-sister of someone on the national criminal database?’

‘Correct. Well, the science is a little bit more complex than those numbers suggest, but that’s the crux of it.’

They looked at each other a moment. Rachel was unable to suppress an excited grin. ‘Narrowing down our pool of suspects from around a hundred and fifty million to… what?’

‘At most, ten?’ supplied Rob. ‘Probably no more than five.’

She fished in her bag, pulling out her notebook and pen. ‘As breakthroughs go, this is pretty significant. So what do we know about the relative on the database.’

‘He’s called Ethan Rowe. Twenty-five years old. Caucasian. A long rap sheet of petty misdemeanors; arrested three weeks ago for felony arson, which resulted in his fingerprints and DNA being logged on CODIS.’

Rachel wrote this down. ‘And where is he now?’

‘Pine Ridge Correctional Facility, awaiting trial.’

‘Which is… where?’

‘It’s in Oregon. Near a city called Madras.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Well, we’re on the right coast, at least.’

‘It’s about five hundred miles from here. Close enough.’

‘So, assuming we can go and talk to him, what are we going to say? We can’t blow our cover by telling him we’re cops, because it would only take one phone call to his half-sister or cousin and…’

Rob looked down at his hands.

‘What?’

‘Rachel, I’m not going to be able to come with you. I have to fly back to DC today.’

‘Can’t you at least come with me to see Rowe? Twenty-four hours more?’

‘I can’t. It’s… family stuff.’

Rachel remembered the reminder on his phone. Annie’s birthday.

‘It’s your daughter’s birthday?’

He examined his fingernails, avoiding eye contact. ‘Not my daughter. My wife. We’re separated, but the kids really want me to be there. It’s…’

‘Complicated?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I see.’

Rachel sat silent for a few seconds while she digested this. She had initially assumed from the absence of a wedding ring that he was single. Then – when she’d seen the picture of his children – divorced. But he was technically still married.

‘There’s something else, too,’ Rob went on. ‘You know I’ve been doing this on my own time, because it’s no longer an Interpol matter. Just like you have.’

She nodded.

‘Now we have this break, and a there’s a real chance of proving our theory, I have to hand over the evidence to the FBI.’ He looked into her face. ‘I have no choice Rachel, you know that.’

‘I’m still going to go and see Ethan Rowe,’ she said stubbornly, forcing herself to forget about Rob’s private life. ‘But I’m going to need your help to get in there.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I’m not sure I can.’

‘Please Rob. I know you want to solve this case as much as I do.’ She gave him a half-smile. ‘Otherwise why would you even be here?’

---

Madras, Oregon called itself a city, but with a population of only 6000 souls it felt more like a large village, marooned on a flat valley floor. There was a broad main street with a couple of gas stations, a drugstore and a supermarket, a small park and little else.

There were no hotels either, but Rachel found herself a room at the Sweet Briar Inn; the town’s only bed and breakfast. It overlooked a park and had roses in the front garden with a deep porch that featured a swing seat. The interior was a riot of overblown faux-Victoriana; all fussy chintz and lace with a ‘parlor’ downstairs and ‘boudoirs’ upstairs. Rachel took a photo of the lace-draped four poster in hers and sent it to Brickall with the caption ‘I keep expecting Norman Bates’s mother to appear.’

She whiled away an hour or so checking through Melissa Downey’s social media pages. The content was predictable and innocuous enough, but she did find a comments thread on a pageants forum where she and one of her friends were mocking a contestant who was very overweight. Melissa had used a whale emoticon, followed by a laughing face. So, superficially sweet Melissa was a fat-shamer after all. Not a surprise, perhaps, but oddly disappointing.

The ornate mahogany cabinet turned out to be concealing a TV, so after a long soak in the claw-foot tub, Rachel lay in front of the news sipping her turndown glass of cherry wine, and thinking about Rob arriving home to his estranged wife like the perfect civilised co-parent. Helping wrap his daughter’s gifts, blowing up balloons, greeting guests. As though he hadn’t just chased halfway across the country with an Englishwoman he barely knew.

But this was who Rob was, and she was in no position to change things, or even to be shocked. Someone of his age was going to have baggage, just as she did. That was something Rachel had taken as read when she met first met him, despite the lack of wedding ring. His situation was complicated, so it was just as well she had followed her professional instincts and avoided getting involved. No regrets, she told herself. Well, maybe just a few.

She consoled herself by eating the home-made truffles that had been left on her pillow. They shed crumbs of chocolate which melted and left dark smears on the lace bedclothes when she eventually drifted into a restless sleep.