“Any friend of Margie’s is a friend of mine,” the guy had said. “Besides, we hardly ever use the cabin anymore. We built a little house on Lopez Island, a place without stairs or ladders. Easier on the knees.”

Claire loved the cabin. It was rustic, but cozy. She didn’t mind the ladder that led up to the loft; she didn’t mind that the heat didn’t quite work. It felt private. Serene.

The drive gave her more time to calm down and sort her thoughts. She’d never been in any trouble before, and surely if the FBI was looking into her now, they’d see that she’d never had a kid. If not, how could she prove that something hadn’t happened?

Claire stopped at the base of the private road to collect her mail. There was an impressive pile, though most of it looked like junk.

Before continuing, she peered over her shoulder. No one had followed her. That was good.

The driveway was a quarter mile to the cabin, and the road was so long and winding that she was sure she was alone. As she rolled along, the gravel pinging her car, her mind calmed even more.

The little cabin sat on sixteen acres of land, all trees and dense brush and ancient-looking ferns. When she got inside, she did a cursory check of the spaces – the loft, the open kitchen and living room, the bedroom and bathroom. It was so small that there was nowhere for a criminal would-be son to hide.

Good. Claire put on some water for tea and pulled out her phone, plugging it in to charge before making a call to the company who had mishandled her DNA. After a frustrating seven minutes of pressing buttons and speaking to a robot, she finally reached a person.

Unfortunately, the person wasn’t much more helpful than the robot. The company representative kept repeating that she couldn’t disclose any information related to an ongoing investigation.

“Even if it’s my alleged DNA that’s been implicated in the investigation?” asked Claire.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not at liberty to say one way or the other. By sending us your sample, you consented to having your genetic makeup put into a database and made available to law enforcement.”

Claire let out a sigh. “But there’s been some sort of mistake. I’d like you to take my name out of this database – and my DNA.”

There was silence for a moment. “I’m not sure that that’s possible, but I can have someone call you.”

Claire went around and around with the representative for almost ten minutes before finally saying, “That’s all for today, thank you.”

How had the FBI gotten the results before she did? Apparently, when Claire had sent off that vial of saliva, she sent every last scrap of her privacy with it.