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“It was this guy Tom Watson, right? It had to be.”
Detective West made a noise that was kind of like a verbal shrug. “He didn’t have any priors. No history of sexual assault or violence against women.”
“What about the DNA evidence? You said the technology was improving all the time.”
“Since Tom Watson was never arrested, there are no fingerprints or DNA records for him in the national databases.”
Henry stayed quiet. Then, “I mean—could you ask him to give it now since you’ve found him.”
Detective West grunted. “I did. And guess what? He said no.”
“You can’t force him?”
“I’d need a warrant, someone in his area to cooperate. But I don’t have the physical evidence for that.”
“So you don’t have enough evidence to collect more evidence?”
“Something like that. I’m sorry, son.” Detective West continued on into the silence. “Anyway, after I interviewed him and his sister, Tom Watson died last week. Heart attack.”
It wasn’t funny. But Henry almost laughed. In all those made-for-television movies he’d watched with Alice, all those unsolved mystery documentaries he watched with Piper, there was always something, no matter how small, no matter how many years later, that led to the truth. But the real truth was that many crimes went unsolved; so many questions were left unanswered. People did terrible things, then died unpunished. What if he, Henry, died one day, never knowing the truth of who he was? Would that mean he’d never really lived?
“I’m still looking, Henry.”
“I know you are, Detective.”
“What about your aunt. Did you ever connect with her?”
West asked him that every time. Henry usually made up some excuse for why he hadn’t gotten in touch. The woman, Alice’s sister, had sent him a few emails which he’d never answered. They were nice.We’re here for you, she’d written.We want you to be a part of our family.
“Yeah,” he’d lied. “We’re in touch.”
“Good. That’s good,” said West sounding relieved. “It’s important to stay connected to family.”
Was it though?
Or was that just something people said. He and Piper wereveryconnected to Piper’s family and it wasn’t always easy, or pleasant. At their small backyard wedding, Piper’s mom and dad had a big fight in the kitchen that carried out into the yard. Some distant relatives who Henry was meeting for the first time asked him pointedly:Where are you from, son?His dark skin, and mass of black curls communicated to them something suspicious about his heritage.
Racist fucks, Piper complained.Don’t worry. We don’t see them much.
Henry had a hard time understanding racism. People were just people, right? They might differ in the color of their skin, features, or cultures, butunderthe skin, they were all the same. He’d read that all humans shared 99 percent of the same DNA. That it was only like 1 percent that accounted for the superficial differences of appearance.
Miss Gail felt more like family than Alice ever had, and she was just some stranger who had taken him in, raised him as best she could. He loved her in a way he wasn’t sure he had loved Alice.
All these thoughts churned as he sat listening to the wind in the trees. Finally, he saw the door to the house open and a woman stepped out onto the stoop and waved.
She looked a little like Alice, but fuller bodied, prettier. She had fluffy blond hair, and wore a flowered dress, simple flats.
He waved back. He couldn’t just drive off now, which is what he had been considering doing before she came out of the door. That’s what happened—thoughts of Detective West, and Alice, and Piper’s family, and their baby, and who Henry had been or would be were like a hurricane in his head, a chaos of thoughts that spiraled until he couldn’t hear or think anything else.
She approached as he crossed the quiet road to go meet her. At the sidewalk she put both her hands to her heart, and started to cry, then took him into a warm, tight embrace. He stood stiffly, awkwardly, letting her hold on—simultaneously touched and surprised, a little scared. He wasn’t really a hugger. Finally, he closed his arms around her.
“I’m Henry,” he said, though she clearly knew who he was.
She pulled back and looked at him, put a hand to each of his cheeks.
“I see her in you,” she said, tears streaming. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a wreck. It’s just that I’ve waited so long for any piece of her. I’mso gladyou’re here, Henry. Thank you for coming. I know nothing has been easy for you.”
She took him by the hand and led him inside the house that was everything it promised from the outside—warm, filled with photos, tastefully decorated. She’d baked cookies, the scent still hanging in the air.
