December 4, Thursday
bottle rinse station a machine or manual setup that rinses new bottles before filling
THE INDUSTRIAL dryers rumbled like a heartbeat, throwing off waves of heat that made the laundry room the warmest spot in the entire campground. I sat on the folding table, my back pressed against the vibrating metal of the nearest machine, savoring the warmth that seeped through my jacket.
Octavia Guy leaned against the table beside me, looking distinctly out of place in her designer wool coat and leather boots. She'd called earlier asking to meet, saying she had something important to discuss. I'd suggested the laundry room, and to her credit, she hadn't complained.
"I owe you an apology," Octavia said. "I should've never encouraged you to put so much stock in that facial recognition analysis. The technology is promising, but it's far from foolproof."
"It's not your fault. You were trying to help."
"Still, I feel responsible for getting your hopes up about Boyd Biggs." She frowned. "Linda's been on my case about it all week. Says I'm too quick to jump to conclusions."
"Bizarrely, it turned out for the best." I shifted, angling myself to catch more heat. "If I hadn't suspected Boyd, I wouldn't have asked him for a DNA test. And if he hadn't arrived to give me those results in person, he wouldn't have been at the campground when Teddy Reeves attacked me."
She looked as if she didn't believe Boyd's timing had been altruistic, and I didn't mention his intention to leave the DNA results—and a fat check—on my van windshield. Octavia let it slide.
"You've been through hell this year."
"Kentucky hasn't exactly rolled out the welcome mat."
"Have you considered uploading your DNA to one of the ancestry services? I know I mentioned it before, but given everything that's happened—"
"I'll think about it."
"You should do more than think about it. These databases are massive now. Even if your father hasn't submitted his DNA, you might find half-siblings, cousins, someone who could point you in the right direction."
"Maybe."
"What do you have to lose at this point?"
The question hung in the warm air between us. My dryer buzzed, signaling the cycle's end.
Octavia pushed off the table. "I should get back to the office before Linda sends out a search party. You know where to find me if you need anything." She left, her expensive boots clicking against the concrete floor.
I pulled out a bundle of warm clothes and held them to my chest. Octavia was probably right—I didn't have much to lose.
On the other hand, giving up might actually be the smartest thing I could do.