The conversation I overheard on Saturday. I update Miles, telling him what I heard Valencia and Marcus discussing. “I didn’t realize at the time that they were talking about life insurance, but it must be, right?”
“Definitely.” He chews on his lip as he thinks something over. I ask him what it is, and he tilts his head. “It sounds like Valencia really thinks you’re Nate. Or she’s trying hard to keep up the delusion. Marcus was probably trying to convince her to finally do the DNA test.”
“Why wouldn’t he do it without her permission?”
“Because he can’t just take your hair and prove you’re not his kid. First off, DNA is flimsy and never exact. It’s not like it is on TV, where you put it in a machine and it says it’s a ninety-nine-percent match. You need samples from both parents, but maternal samples will give the highest markers.
“Those mail-order DNA kits, forensics, even paternity tests compare the child’s DNA to the mother’s first,thencross-reference the father’s markers. You should really pay better attention in biology.”
“Yeah, I’ll make sure I get on that when I’m enrolled in school and not homeless.” Miles laughs, and I feel a teeny bit of pride. “Okay, so he wants to test me so he can keep his pretty boathouse—without a boat, by the way.”
“Well, you wouldn’t buy a car without a garage!” he says with faux shock.
“You’re so right.” I flop down into Marcus’s chair. “So he wants the test because he doesn’t want to pay back the insurance money. And he’s very sure that he won’t have to pay if they do the test.”
Miles nods, picking up on what I’m saying. “Because he knows the test will prove you’re not Nate.”
“Oh my God.” Again my body tingles, only this time it’s more from fear than shock. Miles asks me what’s wrong. I tell him what happened this morning with the paint. And our conversation yesterday while painting Nate’s room.
He has a thoughtful expression on his face that turns skeptical when he speaks. “You think he’s trying to set you up so Valencia finally starts to wonder if you’re not the real Nate? I mean, you’re sure you put the paint on the ground, right?”
“Positive like a mitochondrial DNA test.”
“Terrible example, but I understand the sentiment.”
“So it’s him. He killed Nate.”
Miles holds up his hands. “Hold on. That’s still a leap. It could just be that he knows you’re an imposter and wants you out of his house.”
“We have the insurance payouts, and he’s not just trying to prove I’m not Nate, he’s trying to make it look like I’m a psycho who throws paint on his expensive car.”
Miles sighs. “He’s also a criminal defense attorney who all but told you that without a body or some kind of compelling evidence, he can get away with murder.”
He says it like he’s telling me what he had for dinner last night.
“How can you be so calm about this? I’m the one who’s stuck here. Can you at leastpretendto be concerned?”
“I am! I swear, but...” He shakes his head as he looks over the documents, putting them back together in order and closing the folders. “It feels too easy. And, look, I know you’re going to be pissed when I say this, but are you absolutely sure you put the paint on the ground?”
“Are you serious right now?” The whole point of Miles coming over today was for him to find evidence—evidence that isinhis hands—and he suddenly becomes a skeptic?
“I don’t want to jump the gun.”
“You were the one who said you thought they killed him!”
Now Miles looks like he’s the one who got caught in a lie. “I said... what... I thought would make an interesting story.”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking or not—and, honestly, given the situation, even our queer-based gallows-humor-laugh-because-if-you-don’t-you’ll-cry coping mechanism isn’t appropriate.
“Are you for real right now?” I ask. “You came here to—” But then a thought jumps out. “You only came here for your podcast. Something you can throw in around the midway point to either heighten the stakes or throw people off.”
“That’s not true. I do want to find out what really happened to Nate.”
“This!” I pick up the papers on the desk and hold them up to him. “This is what happened!”
“Stop yelling at me.”
“No! You told me to help you; I’m helping you.”
