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Together, they combed through Henry’s various pages—his Origins and Ancestry accounts, the DNA Detectives Facebook pages, the Donor Sibling Registry. They found some more half siblings, people who had only recently been added. Henry started cross-referencing names with news searches, looking for people linked to crimes and wrongdoing. It didn’t take long to figure out, given their last conversation, who she might be targeting.
This has to stop,he’d texted her.Please, let me help you.
Stay in your lane, Henry.
You’re better than this, Cat.
I’m not. I’m really not.
What’s your endgame?
I’m going to root out what I can...
And then?
And then, when I get too tired, I’m going to write a fittingly dramatic end to this ugly story of mine.
The rest of his texts went unanswered after that.
Now he sat in front of the dark house, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He had no idea where Cat was, but he knew that the person who lived in this house was related to her. Because he was related to Henry, added just six months ago, another almost familiar face on his list of Origins matches.
From a Google search, he’d learned that this person had been accused of a crime as a young man. A young woman accused him of rape. But he’d gotten away with it, if he had been guilty. And later that girl committed suicide.
The name turned up again on some of the online forums about tech jobs. These posts contained veiled comments about his corruption, his lack of ethics, his appetites. Stay away, one person warned, from the company, from the man.
He touched me.
He threatened me.
He came on to me, but when I went to Human Resources, I was fired.
He was just Cat’s type, seemingly embodying all the worst of their father’s DNA.
And this was his house, a grand waterfront home, all white stucco and blue glass, towering palms glowing in the elaborate landscaping, a huge gleaming Sea Ray sitting in the dock out back. The house was valued at nearly two million on Homes.com; the boat, new, cost close to half a million. Other things Henry and Gemma had found online during their deep dive into records: he was late on his mortgage; he hadn’t paid his taxes last year.
Finally, Henry steeled himself and climbed out of the car into the humid night air. The croaking of frogs, the clinking of halyards.
He walked up the impeccably manicured path to the front door, motion sensor lights coming on as he moved.
But when he rang the bell, no one answered. He stood, waited. Thought about leaving. What was he going to say to the guy when he opened the door?
Hey, I think our half sister is going to try to kill you.
I’m Henry, by the way, nice to meet you. Did you know our donor father was a serial rapist and killer who died in prison? Messed up, right?
Oh my god. He should never have come.
But he rang the bell again, and saw a light come on inside.
He peered in the glass door and watched as an older woman with wild gray-and-black hair, a robe over pink pajamas, and thick glasses, shuffled down the stairs finally, looking sleepy and confused.
She clutched a cell phone in her hand. Henry felt buzzy with nerves; took a step back from the door to show her he meant no harm.
She flipped on the light and regarded him through the thick glass.
“Can I help you?” she asked, frowning.
“I’m sorry to come so late. But I’m looking for the owner of this house—Michael?”
