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“All done,” Dr. Cox said, snapping off his surgical gloves. “Get him in the cooler and then we’ll do our write-up.”
Sloan had just observed the first autopsy of her fellowship. With help from two autopsy technicians, Sloan transferred the body onto a gurney and wheeled it to the row of freezers at the back of the morgue. She made sure the body was properly tagged, and then slid the gurney into the freezer. In the hallway she looked back into the morgue through the viewing window. Other than the table she and Dr. Cox had just finished at, which stood empty and isolated, the rest of the stations were full. Fellows, residents, and attendings huddled around each autopsy table and stared down at the bodies lying on them. Overhead lights illuminated the workspaces, and Sloan imagined herself there the following year—performing her own autopsies and discovering the clues every body left behind that explained how death had come.
In the locker room, she dropped her scrubs in the laundry bin and changed into her street clothes. Her phone buzzed from the top shelf of her locker. She checked the caller ID. James the genealogist. It had been just over a week since Sloan submitted her DNA. A nervous flash of energy flushed through her system, followed by a pang of guilt. Her adoption had been something her parents discussed openly since the time Sloan was a young girl, which diffused any desire to look for her biological parents. Slowly, though, over the last several days, an unfamiliar anticipation stirred in her gut at the thought of discovering who had given birth to her and why they had decided to give her up.
Sloan lifted the phone to her ear. “Hi James. Everything come back okay?”
“Yeah, well . . . that’s why I’m calling. I found something . . . weird with your DNA profile. Let’s meet so we can talk. I’m free later tonight. The coffeehouse again?”
Her hands grew clammy, and a flush of warmth burned her cheeks and neck.
“How about you come to my place. Or I can come to you, whatever’s easier.”
“I’ll come to you,” James said. “Text me your address. I’ll be free at eight.”
“James,” Sloan said before the call ended. “Is it bad?”
There was a long pause.
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll see you tonight, Sloan.”
CHAPTER 7
Raleigh, North Carolina Wednesday, July 10, 2024
SLOAN WAITED ANXIOUSLY AS THE CLOCK TICKED AWAY SHE TRIED TO finish her write-up on the autopsy she had scrubbed in on that morning, but her mind refused to focus on the details of the overdose patient, the toxicology results, the weight of the spleen, or anything other than what James had discovered about her DNA profile. At 8:30 p.m. her doorbell mercifully rang.
“Hey,” she said when she opened the door. “Thought you got lost.”
“Sorry, running late.”
“Come on in. Want a beer or something? You’re old enough to drink, aren’t you?”
James smiled. “Do you need to see my ID?”
“I trust you.”
Sloan closed the door to her cozy one bedroom, which consisted of a small kitchen with a breakfast nook, a living area, and her bedroom.
“We can work at the kitchen table.”
Sloan rummaged through the fridge as James unpacked his laptop and a few papers from his rucksack.
“I’ve got Coors Light or a hard seltzer.”
“Coors, thanks.”
She handed James a can of beer and popped the top on her Lover Boy, sitting down across from him.
“Your phone call got me pretty anxious, I’m not going to lie,” Sloan said. “What did you find?”
James opened his laptop and quickly typed his password before looking at Sloan.
“I usually start consultations by asking questions about a client’s family. Since you were adopted, we don’t have access to that background info. That’s not a problem. I work with lots of adopted clients looking for their birth parents. But in your case . . .”
“Yes?”
“Your DNA profile,” James said, tapping on his laptop, “tells an interesting story.”
