Handing me a clipboard, to which is clipped a questionnaire, Dr. Reilly continues talking, telling me about the origin of the disease, how it can be traced back to certain countries. Finland, for one. I’ve never met anybody from Finland, don’t know what they’re like. And yet it’s possible my great-great-great and not-so-great ancestors arrived from there. Or Colombia. There is a town in Colombia, Yarumal, where more of its inhabitants have the ‘foolishness’, as they call it, than not. Mom never liked coffee so I’m guessing we’re more likely to have hailed from one of the Scandinavian countries. It’s too late to ask her now. Come to think of it, Mom never spoke about our ancestry. Who was in our family’s past? Where do I come from?

Filling in the questionnaire, I answer what I can. Name, date of birth, health questions, lots of health questions. I realize I’m very healthy. Lucky me. The family history boxes I leave blank. Knowing my grandfather had a medal from the war is not going to help anyone studying gene mutations.

When she asks to take a sample of blood, I buckle a bit. So soon, and with no notice. Not wanting to appear weak, I swallow my fear and roll up my sleeve. This is it. The one that will tell all. Does Rebecca Wall carry danger in her veins? Will she be doomed to the same fate as her mother and half of Yarumal?

After she’s finished, I head for Mom’s room, wondering, yet again, what I’ve let myself in for.

Mom doesn’t know me today. I’ve been sitting here by her bed watching her play with the lace at the edge of her nightgown. Pulling it and laughing, pulling and laughing. How much more of this can I take? My heart cries just looking at her. And what if I’m carrying the gene? What if this is my destiny? Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have joined that trial. I’ll tell them to keep the results away from me. Or will I? If I’m not carrying the gene, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life worrying about it.

My cell rings. More trouble, no doubt. Rooting in my bag, I locate the phone and answer without checking the incoming number.

‘Hello?’

‘Rebecca Wall?’

‘Yes?’

‘Detective Turner. We need you to come down to the station.’

Chapter Nine

The precinct looks just like a police station does in the movies, except there are no hookers hanging around. My head feels dizzy, nerves drilling through my skull. What does Turner want now?