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“Sure.”
“You can come, too,” she said.
“That’s okay. I’ll use the time to catch up on some stuff.”
“Don’t work too hard, loser.”
She kissed him long and deep. Even disheveled, a little pale, fatigued, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Their life was good. He had a solid, high-paying job; they had Piper’s parents close so there was help with Luke. Piper missed teaching, but she wasn’t ready to leave the baby. Their house was comfortable and stylish. Maybe other people wanted more. But he just wanted this. It was enough.
“You okay?” she asked with a cock of her head.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
“So go bring home the bacon.”
He waited until he’d left their cul-de-sac before calling a number he hadn’t used in a while. All these years the number was still the same.
The old cop, retired now and not living too far from Henry, answered on the first ring.
“West.”
“Henry Parker.”
“Henry, wow. Great to hear from you.”
“How’s retirement treating you?”
“Eh, you know. I hung up a shingle. I’m not the golfing, cruise to the Bahamas, wine on the beach at sunset type turns out. Much to my wife’s dismay.”
Henry smiled. That tracked.
“I was wondering—have time for a beer and a burger?”
“Sure. When?”
“Tonight.”
There was silence, the shuffling of papers.
“What’s going on?”
“You know, I’m not sure.”
They set a time and place, and Henry headed to work, thinking about the murder in Miami, his half sister Cat with whom he had developed a complicated relationship, and the dark worries he’d pushed away until he couldn’t.
The Palm Pavilion was a beachfront restaurant famous for its grouper sandwich and live music at sunset. The pretty blue and white building sat on the end of a boardwalk looking out languidly at the Gulf of Mexico and the sugar white sands of Clearwater Beach. It was the perfect sunset spot if you could take the late afternoon heat. Diners were cooled by umbrellas and lightly misting fans in the hotter months. Tonight was on the temperate side, the blanket of humidity that would fall in a few weeks still blissfully absent.
Henry waited at a table in the far corner of the deck, taking in the salt air, the laughing gulls. It was a quiet Tuesday night, and the singer-slash-guitar player was favoring Neil Young and David Bowie covers instead of the usual Jimmy Buffett. Henry turned his sweating margarita glass, watching the door. He’d spent the day researching the things he had on his mind, and he was glad for the warm wash of the tequila.
Henry and Cat shared eighteen half siblings that he knew of. Seven of them were dead. Eight if you counted the Miami tech entrepreneur, though he couldn’t be sure about that yet.
He’d spent the day playing amateur detective, cross-referencing between the Origins site and the Donor Sibling Registry. He hadn’t been on either in ages, having given up the quest for finding more family connections.
Henry had accomplished nearly nothing at work as he dug into each of their lives by searching the internet, visiting social media pages, tracking their friends, reading obituaries. He’d gone down the rabbit hole, as Gemma liked to call it. His head was full of images of the people who were related to him by a stranger’s sperm. Their lives, their loves, their wants and dreams.
So many different types of people, all from the same man. A man who was still a mystery to Henry.
After a while, the detective walked through the door, looking tanned and svelte in a pair of khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirt, and Top-Siders, the Florida retiree uniform. His hair was snow-white now and he sported a wide mustache, neatly trimmed.
