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Her face lights up, and I don't miss the predatory flicker of maternal opportunity in her eyes. “How long?”
“Best case? A few days. Worst case? Much longer. Backlogs, the general entropy of the universe, the fact that this isn't exactly a high-priority emergency. Not to mention that the utility of any recovered DNA depends on having something to compare it against—a corresponding profile in the local or state database, a direct reference sample, or DNA from a biological relative. Without a viable comparison, we could recover a perfectly usable genetic profile and still have no idea who it belongs to.”
“Not an emergency,” she repeats, looking personally offended on behalf of the remains. “There is an unidentified human being involved, Serena. That feels like a moral emergency to me.”
“It’s not an active threat,” I clarify.
“All tragedy is active to someone,” she says solemnly. It’s both undeniably true and aggressively dramatic.
I wait for the other foot to drop. I know it’s coming.
“So,” she leans so close to the camera I can see the determination in her pupils. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll be in town the entire time.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You implied it via your timeline.”
“The timeline doesn't mean I’m geographically tethered to Stillwater.”
“Serena,” she says, drawing my name out into that specific three-syllable warning that suggests she’s about to overstep with extreme prejudice. “You cannot float in and out of town while skeletal remains are being analyzed. That looks evasive.”
“I am not evading anything.”
“You are evading dinner,” she corrects.
I press my lips together.
“I have work,” I say, my voice a weak defense against the inevitable.
“You always have work. You also have a mother who lives exactly four minutes away from the inn and possesses a refrigerator full of actual nutrients that you currently pretend not to need.”
“I do not pretend.”
“You fuel your entire existence with cold caffeine, professional obligation, and a beautifully curated sense of malice."
“That’s... mostly untrue.”
“It is a biological impossibility.” She studies me through the screen, her gaze performing a mental audit of my soul. My mother doesn't do casual conversation; she conducts criminal interrogations disguised as concern. “You will stay for the duration of the analysis,” she decides.
“That is not how my employment contract works.”
“You will stay as long as is professionally necessary,” she amends, granting me the sort of leeway a cat gives a mouse. “And you will stop by.”
I consider the alternative—a relentless campaign of daily check-ins that will eventually involve her showing up at my door with a casserole and a list of grievances.
“I’ll stop by,” I concede. “Soon.”
“Define ‘soon’ with a specific timestamp, Serena.”
“Within the week.”
“Specificity.”
“Midweek.”
She narrows her eyes, calculating the win.
“Tuesday,” I finally snap.
