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?"
