Chapter 4: The Truth Unravels

The police were fast and thorough. Detective Jamison wore a faded police windbreaker, her badge clipped to her belt, and a coffee stain on her sleeve. She listened to my story with the tired patience of someone who’d heard every kind of weird case.

The first piece of evidence was the official family document. Strangely, it was registered in the system, but the copy I brought from home was fake. Jamison pulled up both on her monitor, side by side, brow furrowed.

The paternity test report was legit—issued by a real institution. She tapped her finger on the letterhead, then on my name. The only thing they couldn’t confirm was whether the father’s sample in the report was actually mine.

I immediately offered a hair sample for DNA comparison. She clipped it herself, sealed it in a bag, her badge glinting in the morning light.

The results would take two days.

While waiting, I got a Facebook message from my childhood friend Jason Douglas—first time in ages. “Long time no see, dude. Wanna grab a beer and catch up?” It felt like a lifeline.

My nerves were shot, and I needed to vent, so I agreed. Maybe a familiar face would help, even if it was just a couple of rounds at the local dive.

Jason and I grew up side by side—stickball in the alley, chasing fireflies, trading comic books under the old oak tree.

Our parents worked together at the auto plant. Then his family hit it big with a house buyout and moved up in the world. After college, we drifted apart, but the old bond was still there.

Once we met up, it was like old times—embarrassing stories, teasing, a few too many beers. The bar was half-empty, country songs on the jukebox, bartender topping us off without asking.

Only then did I learn Jason had been laid off, still living at home, his parents on his case to get married. He played it off, but the tension in his shoulders said otherwise.

I told him about the background check disaster, tried to laugh it off, but my voice broke halfway through.

Jason’s face went pale. He stared at me a long time, picking at his beer label, then finally patted my shoulder: “It’s not a big deal, man. You always had good grades. Just… just take another exam and get another job.”

I forced a bitter smile. “How can it be that easy? My major’s too niche—there’s barely any openings.”

He slammed his glass down. “All this because of some random kid? If I ever meet his parents, I swear, they’ll wish they never messed with me.”

I noticed the way he gripped his beer, knuckles white. Something about it made my skin itch. But I just chalked it up to too much beer.

Within two days, I found out why he’d acted so strange.