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“What is this?” I ask, not wanting to take it.
“The report. The full report.”
That feeling of dread I’d felt since Odin called worsens. It’s the way they’re looking at me. I take the envelop but don’t take whatever is inside it out.
“I told you what Illuminate does as far as the public is concerned. But they also provide discreet DNA testing,” Rick says.
The waitress brings our drinks. Rick stops talking, and I don’t miss how Odin is watching me.
“Spill it, Rick,” I say once the woman is gone.
Odin continues when Rick doesn’t. “That is a copy of the report that was burnt,” Odin says. “Rick was able to access the file.”
“What’s on it?”
“It’s Caius.”
“Caius?” I ask, confused.
“Open it.” Odin gestures to the envelope while Rick picks up his glass with sweaty palms and loudly drains the contents.
I take the papers out, unfolding them. I recognize the watermark that repeats throughout. I can see a similar table to the charred one, though this sheet is pristine white, the edges not having been turned to ash, the paper not yellowed with age.
I read my mother’s full name on it. Evelyn Thomas. She’s in the column labeled Mother. Under the column labeled Child is Caius’s name.
A cold sweat breaks out over my forehead, under my arms. I drag my gaze to the column labeled Alleged Father and my world goes sideways.
I’ve never known who Caius’s father was. Mom never talked about him. Dad never did. I was never sure he even knew.
“This can’t be right,” I tell Rick, turning the paper over, turning it back to see the date of the report. It’s eleven years old. Caius would have been almost twenty-one then.
“It’s right, man,” Rick says. “These things are like 99.999999% right.”
My hand turns into a fist. I’m crushing the report in my palm. “Can’t be.” I push my chair back noisily and stand, then need to grip the edge of the table because it’s like I stood up too fast.
“Are you going to be okay?” Odin asks, getting to his feet.
I look at him, then at Rick. I lean toward him, take him by the collar. “If you’re fucking wrong—”
“I’m not,” he says, looking terrified.
“He’s not, Santos. You may not like the outcome, but he’s not wrong.”
“I need to go.” I start to walk out.
“Wait.” Odin rushes to my side. “I need to talk to my sister. Is she at the house?”
“You can’t tell her. You can’t fucking breathe a word of this. I’ll fucking kill you if you do.”
“I won’t. It’s something else.”
I don’t answer his question. I can’t think about anything but what’s in that report right now.
“Your coat. You forgot your coat,” Rick says, shoving my coat into my hands.
I walk outside in a fog, climb into my car, and drive, and drive with that damned report on the seat beside me, constant in my periphery. I don’t want to see it. Think about it. I don’t want to know it.
Because if what’s on that thing is true, it changes everything.
