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Chasen stands up so quickly he nearly knocks over the chair he was sitting in, making me and a few other people around us jump.
“Rosie, we need to go.”
I open the bottom drawer of my desk to pull out my purse. “I know we do, but you were the one that wanted to wait and read the letter.”
“Rosemary,” Chasen says in a soft but sharp tone that I’ve never heard him use before.
“Rosemary?” I look up at him in surprise. “What are you channeling my mother all of a sudden?”
He doesn't laugh or even crack a smile. The look in his eyes tells me that something is wrong, but I don’t understand what could have happened in the last twenty seconds that changed his attitude so quickly.
All at once, a cold, uneasy feeling moves down my spine, making all the hairs on my arm stand up. My gaze moves down to the paperwork in Chasen’s clenched hand.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Rosie, please.” His eyes dart around to check and see if anyone is watching us, before lowering his voice. “Let's go out to my truck, and we can talk about this."
My legs seem to move of their own volition, and I stand up from my chair and circle the desk. Chasen rests his hand on my back and leads me to the front door of the Fatesville Gazette offices. There’s a whooshing sound of my racing pulse in my ears as we move. I don’t hear anything anyone says to me as we pass by.
Chasen holds open the door, and we step outside. For a moment, I think that whatever he's about to say can't be bad news, it's sunny out, and the sky is a brilliant blue. But that’s not how the world works.
I step inside the cab of Chasen’s old Chevy truck and watch him as he walks around the front to get into the driver’s seat.
“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” I say to him as he settles into his seat and closes the creaky door behind him.
"Maybe we should—" he starts to say, but I cut him off.
“Tell me, Chase.”
He sighs and pulls the folded DNA paperwork from the front pocket of his shirt. I reach out for it, but he pulls it back at the last moment.
“I think we need to have this conversation with your parents.”
“I’m pretty sure I know what it says,” I tell him.
His brow furrows in confusion. “I don’t think you do.”
“It says that my dad isn’t Hank Hardin.” My voice breaks with a mix of anger and sadness when I say my father’s name. “I can’t believe my mother lied to him and me.”
“That’s not exactly what it says.” Chasen hands me the paperwork but lets me take it this time.
I unfold the sheets and flip through until I get to the paper that shows the biological test results. I read the results next to my father's name—Hank Hardin: Negative Match. My gaze moves down to my mother’s name, and my heart sinks into my stomach like a heavy rock—Marjorie Hardin: Negative Match.
