Chapter 6
Peyton
I'm prepared for sterile labs and fluorescent lighting at the DNA verification facility, the kind of clinical setting that smells like a mixture of someone’s lunch cooking in the microwave and bleach, but what we pull up to instead is a modest brick building tucked between a coffee shop and a tax attorney's office on the edge of Wintervale's medical district.
I’m surprised that the place is even open during this time of the season, but understanding Blake the way I’m starting to, I’m sure he pulled some strings to make sure they were open.
It looks discreet and intentionally forgettable.
Perfect for people who need answers they can't ask for publicly like me.
“We’re visiting Dr. Richardson," Blake says as we climb the stairs.
"Former medical examiner, retired five years ago after he testified against a Hollow Club member in a wrongful death case.
They tried to ruin him. He survived it but barely.
Now he does private work for people who can't trust the system. "
"And you trust him?"
"I trust that he hates the same people I do." Blake's calloused hand is warm in mine. We haven't let go since leaving the club, and I'm not about to start now. "That's good enough."
The black SUV that followed us is parked three blocks back. They’re not hiding, just watching. Making sure we know they're there. Blake noticed, though. I can tell by the tension in his shoulders and the way his free hand keeps drifting toward his jacket where the gun sits.
"They're not going to try anything here," I assure him as if I know his business better than he does. "Too public."
"They tried something at my club."
"That was different." I squeeze his hand. “The interaction between you and that Domenic person seemed personal."
“Maybe a little.” Blake stops at the top of the stairs, turns to face me. His eyes are dark, serious, searching mine for something I'm not sure I can give him. “Are you nervous?"
"Terrified," I admit. "But not of them. Of what happens after we prove I'm a Kingsley. Once it's official, once the DNA is verified and filed, there's no going back for me. I’m no longer simply Senator Quinn’s daughter. I’m a Kingsley. And I can feel the weight of that already.”
"We can walk away," Blake says quietly. "Right now. I've got cash, contacts, and ways to disappear that even Silas can't track. You take your go-bag, I take mine, and we're gone before they realize we're not coming back."
"You'd do that?"
"I've done it before."
"And you came back because you couldn't live with yourself if you didn't try to fix what's broken in this place.” I step closer, close enough to feel his breath.
"I can't run, Blake. Not from this. My mother died trying to claim what was hers.
If I run now, that means they win. That means she died for nothing. "
"She died trying to protect you."
"And I'm going to honor that by finishing what she started." I pull out the flash drive and hold it up between us. "Whatever's on here, the will, the clause, or whatever the fuck—is my birthright. My power. My choice. And I choose to fight."
Blake studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay. Then we fight."
He kisses me quickly, hard, and possessively. A promise, dare I say a vow, sealed in heat and determination.
Then he opens the door.
Dr. Richardson is a sixty-something-year-old man, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and puttering around his office with the kind of precise movements that come from years of working with the dead.
His office is small, cluttered with medical texts and files that shouldn't be kept in a building without proper security.
But something is reassuring about the chaos. It feels real, lived-in, human.
"Blake." Dr. Richardson doesn't smile, but there's warmth in his greeting. "It's been too long. I heard you were back."
"You and everyone else in Wintervale."
"Small town. Smaller when you're a Delano." He turns to me, extends a hand. "You must be Ms. Quinn, or should I say Ms. Kingsley-Quinn?”
"That's what we're here to find out." I shake his hand. His grip is firm, clinical, assessing.
"Yes. Blake explained some of the situation. You need genetic verification of your maternal lineage, documentation suitable for legal proceedings, and complete discretion." He gestures to a chair. "Sit. This won't take long."
The process is simple, efficient. He performs a cheek swab, a blood draw, and chain-of-custody documentation that Dr. Richardson explains will hold up in any court.
"The results will take forty-eight hours minimum," he says as he labels the samples.
"Seventy-two if we want to be thorough. I'll compare your DNA against the Kingsley genetic markers from their medical foundation database, publicly available for research purposes, though I doubt they anticipated this particular use. "
"And if it's a match?" I ask.
"Then you're a verified descendant of Edmund Kingsley. Which means—" He pauses, glances at Blake. "Which means you become the most valuable and most endangered person in Wintervale. You understand that?"
"I'm starting to."
Dr. Richardson removes his gloves and disposes of them with the careful precision of someone who's spent a lifetime managing biohazards. "I'll encrypt the results, send them only to Blake's secure line. No paper trail, no digital footprint beyond what's necessary for legal filing."
"Thank you," Blake says.
"Don't thank me yet." Dr. Chen's expression darkens. "You should know, someone else came asking about Kingsley genealogy about six months ago. They wanted access to the genetic database, claimed it was for a family history project."
My stomach drops. "Who?"
“He didn't give a name, but based on past experience, I recognized the affiliation—Hollow Club. I refused, obviously. But if the HC is looking into bloodlines, then they might already suspect what you're about to prove."
“We think they might be outside right now. I think they are more than aware of who I am and what I could possibly prove.”
Dr. Chen’s forehead wrinkles, and then Blake's hand finds mine again and squeezes. I don’t think he wanted me to mention to Dr. Richardson that we were followed.
"Did the HC push back when you refused access?” Blake asks the doctor.
"They threatened to shut me down and audit my licenses. You know, the usual intimidation tactics. I told them to try." Dr. Richardson smiles grimly. "The advantage of having nothing left to lose is that threats lose their effectiveness."
I’m silent for a moment, processing the timeline.
Six months ago.
It was six months ago that my father started receiving threats. It was also around the same time I started noticing surveillance that felt different from the usual Secret Service presence. They've been watching me for longer than I imagined.
“There's something else," Dr. Richardson says. He pulls out a folder, slides it across his desk. "Blake asked me to look into your mother's death. The official autopsy report ruled it a mechanical failure, a brake line malfunction with no evidence of tampering."
"But?" I hear the question in my voice, the hope and dread twisted together.
"But I know the medical examiner who signed off on it.
Dr. Patricia Lennox. She's competent, thorough, and has never been one to take shortcuts.
" He opens the folder, shows me pages of technical medical jargon I can barely parse.
"The autopsy was completed in six hours.
That's unusually fast for a high-profile case.
And there are inconsistencies in the toxicology report, substances present that don't match the official narrative. "
My hands are shaking. I force them still. "What kind of substances?"
"Traces of a sedative which was minimal and barely detectable.
The kind of drug that could be explained away as prescription medication for a sleep disorder.
Except your mother wasn't prescribed anything that would show up in this concentration.
" Dr. Richardson looks at me with something like sympathy.
"I can't prove it was foul play but I can say with medical certainty that the investigation was incomplete. Deliberately so."
"Who signed off on closing the case?" Blake asks.
"That's the interesting part. The order came from the district attorney's office. Specifically, from a prosecutor named Marcus Thorne."
I’ve been doing my research in the last twenty-four hours and I know that surname. Thorne is another one of Wintervale's founding families.
"Jesus," I breathe.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Richardson says quietly. "I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
"No." I close the folder with careful precision. "It's exactly what I needed to hear. Confirmation that my mother didn't just die. She was killed, and people I don't even know helped cover it up."
Blake's arm comes around my shoulders, steady and solid. "We'll prove it and hold people accountable. Once you’ve claimed your inheritance and have the power and resources, we'll reopen the investigation. We'll get justice for your mom.”
"Justice." The word tastes bitter. "Is that even possible in Wintervale?"
"We'll make it possible. One way or another.”
Dr. Richardson stands, signaling the appointment's over. "Be careful. Both of you. What you’re attempting to do comes with more than just money. It comes with enemies who've spent decades protecting what they think is theirs. They won't give it up easily."
"I'm not asking them to give it up." I stand, holding my clutch from last night, and meet his eyes directly. "I'm taking it. Whether they like it or not."
He almost smiles. "Your mother would be proud."
The words hit harder than they should. I blink back tears I don't have time for. Not yet. Not until this is over.