Chapter 8 The Missing DNA
Ava never apologized, and the following week her face was everywhere.
Front pages, headlines, gossip feeds.
“Beloved Actress Caught in Drug Scandal.”
“Private Texts and Party Footage Leak.”
Anonymous sources confirmed long-term cocaine use, party drugs, prescription abuse. Then came the second wave.
Private messages surfaced. Preferences she had clearly never intended to see daylight. A public persona built on elegance suddenly paired with appetites she had carefully kept hidden.
The internet did what it always did. It devoured her.
By Friday her team released a statement about “mental health struggles” and a “temporary withdrawal from public life.” By Sunday brands had begun distancing themselves. Contracts dissolved. A major film project was “postponed indefinitely.”
I read the articles at my kitchen counter, my coffee cooling beside me.
It seemed Knox Sinclair did not bluff.
Still, Ava’s scandal barely registered compared to what weighed on me.
Three weeks had passed since I had gone home to meet Evan. Three weeks of silence.
Amy had found nothing that suggested Elena was alive. No card activity. No document usage. No hospital records. No border crossings. No digital footprint.
Nothing.
People did not vanish like that unless something had gone terribly wrong.
So I made the call.
Detective Holt in Berkeley had told me once that if I ever learned anything, no matter how small, I should tell him. Something had happened again with my father’s secretary. That was enough.
“I’m calling about a missing woman,” I said when he answered. “Elena Brooks. She was my father’s secretary.”
There was a pause.
“Go on,” Holt said carefully.
“She and my father were having a long-term affair. They have a seven-year-old son. She disappeared three weeks ago. No activity since. I believe her disappearance is connected to Marissa Richards.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Thank you for calling,” he said. “That is not insignificant. I will contact the detectives handling Elena’s file.”
Then his tone shifted.
“Before you hang up,” he said, “I need to tell you something about your mother’s case.”
“Yes?” I asked.
“We found the missing DNA sample.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “You… found it?”
“Yes. It had been logged under a different case number. We located it last week and ran it.”
“And?” I asked.
“It belongs to an unknown female.”
I leaned back against the counter. “A woman,” I whispered.
“Yes,” Holt said. “That narrows the field considerably.”
“Have you matched it yet?”
“Not yet. But we are working toward that.”
“How?”
There was a brief hesitation.
“We are currently monitoring Marissa Richards.”
“You’re what?”
“If a person voluntarily discards an item in a public place, a coffee cup, a napkin, a cigarette, a straw, it is legally recoverable. No warrant required.”
“So you’re trying to get her DNA.”
“Yes.”
“If it matches,” I said slowly.
“Then we have probable cause. And probable cause gets us a court-ordered DNA sample.”
I swallowed. “How long?”
“As long as it takes,” he replied, then paused. “Ashley, you were right to call.”
“Thank you,” I said softly.
When the call ended, I stepped onto my balcony and let the city air wash over me. The past was finally starting to move.
I watched the traffic far below for a moment, then reached for my phone again. This call was easier. I dialed my uncle Marc.
“Ma petite étoile,” he said warmly when he answered. “You finally remembered your poor uncle exists?”
I smiled despite myself. “Bonsoir, oncle. How are you?”
“Better now,” he replied. “And Chicago? Still trying to convince you it is more beautiful than Paris?”
“It still is,” I said lightly. “And still pretending it isn’t trying to eat me alive.”
He chuckled. “And work? Are you making men in suits nervous?”
“Only the ones who deserve it.”
“Good,” he said approvingly.
He asked about my apartment, about Amy, about whether I was eating properly, about whether I was sleeping enough. He always asked those things, as if he still felt responsible for the girl I had been instead of the woman I had become.
Then I inhaled slowly and said, “There are updates.”
His tone changed immediately. “Sur ta mère?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause, then the sound of him exhaling slowly. “Alors… tell me.”
I told him everything. About the DNA. About the unknown woman. About Elena. About Marissa being monitored. He did not interrupt. When I finished, he exhaled again, slower this time.
“C’est enfin en mouvement,” he murmured. “After all these years.”
“I didn’t want to be alone with it,” I admitted.
“You never were alone,” he said gently. “Tu ne l’as jamais été.”
We spoke about smaller things after that. His garden in Provence. My grandma who still thought I was too thin. His belief that I worked too much and lived too little.
Before we hung up, his voice softened.
“Quoi qu’il arrive, tu as ta famille. Toujours.” No matter what happens, you have your family. Always.
“Je sais,” I whispered.