Leo

LEO

NOW

Over dinner I stare at you, wondering if the cleft chin only shows its face sometimes. But for as long as I stare, I never see it. It’s not there.

That night I do some digging on the internet. I see the same thing Piper saw. The only way to get rid of a cleft chin is through surgery. That costs about two or three thousand dollars. I seriously doubt those meth heads forked over a couple grand for a chin implant for you. I’m also doubting there’s a plastic surgeon anywhere near Michael that could have done it.

I compare the two pictures side by side. There are far more similarities than not. Most of the differences could be chalked up to time, like the way your nose has widened or your face narrowed. That happens as we grow up. Your hair is also darker. The sun lightens hair. Where you were at, there was no sun.

But then there’s that cleft chin, also known by the internet as the incomplete fusion of the symphysis menti during fetal development. In layman’s terms: a butt chin. It’s rare. It’s genetic. It’s gone. You don’t have it anymore. It isn’t that you lost it.

It’s that you are not my sister.

I don’t know what to do with this information. Do I tell Dad and break his heart? Or let him go on believing this pipe dream of his? The odds of my sister ever coming home now are slim to none. As long as Dad thinks you’re her, he’s happy. He can get on with his life. He can have closure, albeit phony. You, whoever you are, who lived locked in someone’s basement for eleven years, can have a better life. Dad will take care of you. He’ll give you everything you need.

Except that you probably have your own folks out there. Maybe you have a kid brother, too. They’re probably missing you.

I wait two days before I show Dad the pictures Piper showed me. At first he flies off the handle, mad mostly at me for making shit up.

But the longer he stares at those pictures, he sees.

“The DNA test, Leo,” he says, “was conclusive. The DNA test confirmed that she’s Delilah. DNA tests don’t lie.”

That is a major question mark. Because DNA tests almost always get it right. There are rare errors that can be chalked up to the quality of the sample or the way the sample was handled, or the results interpreted.

We go to the police station. With you in another room, Dad corners the lady cop and one of her henchmen. He shows her the pictures. She’s dismissive at first. “You can’t just think she’d look the exact same as she did when she was six. People change, Josh. They grow up. That baby fat disappears and features become more defined. That’s all that’s happening here.”

She ascribes Dad’s fears to some form of PTSD, thinking that after all these years of missing Delilah, he has anxiety over losing her again.

It’s not that simple. I printed out the articles online that say cleft chins don’t just vanish; they’re here for life. She reads the article and her face goes white.

“What if the DNA test got it wrong?” Dad asks.

“DNA tests are lauded as extremely reliable, almost one hundred percent.”

“I’d like to see those results,” Dad says, thinking the lab fucked up. There are things called a false positive and a coincidental match.

The lady cop doesn’t move. She holds stock-still.

“Carmen?” he asks. “I’d like to see the results, please.” Though why, I don’t know, because it’s not like Dad, an investment banker, can make heads or tails of a DNA report.

“I can get it,” the henchman says.

“No,” the lady cop says quickly. “Let me.” She walks away. Dad’s eyes follow her. She’s not that bad-looking, for an older lady. Like Dad, she’s got to be pushing fifty, though she takes better care of herself than Dad does. She looks like she works out, eats healthy and all that. Under her clothes, she’s probably ripped.

When she comes back, she’s shaking her head. Her hands are empty. She says decisively, “It wasn’t there.”

“Ma’am?” the henchman asks.

“It wasn’t there. The DNA report wasn’t in the file.” She is phlegmatic. Her voice is flat. She stares at the henchman, then Dad, unblinking.

“Maybe you missed it. Those papers have a tendency to stick together. I can double-check, if you’d like, ma’am.”

“It wasn’t there. I didn’t miss it.” She’s pissed now, for two things: one, that the report is missing, and two, that the henchman second-guessed her in front of Dad and me.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

The henchman offers to pull up the report online. “I can do it myself,” she says. We follow her to a desk. She sits at the computer, fingers pecking away on the keyboard. Neither Dad nor I can see what’s happening on the screen because we’re on the wrong side of it.

She stops typing. Her fingers hover above the keyboard.

“What’s wrong?” Dad asks.

“I just...” she starts. “I forgot my password, that’s all. Just give me a minute.” We do. It doesn’t help. A minute later she still can’t remember her password to whatever software cops use.

“Let me try mine,” the henchman says, reaching past her for the keyboard.

“Don’t,” she snaps at him. “Just don’t.” It’s loud enough that people stare. Some other cop walks over and asks if everything is all right.

Detective Rowlings is the undemonstrative type. She’s seen everything there is to see in her line of work. She’s become desensitized to all things bad.

But still, you can see a tiny breach in her shell. It’s visible.

She looks at Dad. “We’ve been together from the very beginning, Josh. All the ups and downs of this case. I’ve watched you cope with the unbearable loss of your wife and child. I’ve seen firsthand your hope and resilience every time you thought there was a lead as to where Delilah might be. You never gave up on her.” Her voice cracks. “You were hell-bent on searching until Delilah came home, and I told myself long ago that I was in this for the long haul. If you weren’t giving up, neither was I. I grew fond of you over the years, Josh, and wanted more than anything to bring your little girl home to you. This wasn’t just a case for me—it was personal. I should know better than that. You’re never supposed to let it get personal. There’s a line. You don’t cross it. I did.

“And then I got the call we’d been waiting for for eleven years. I was so certain she was Delilah, Josh. She checked off all the boxes. She looked like her. She said she was her. Unlike the imposters we’ve seen, this one was one hundred percent legit. I could feel it in my bones. We’d done it. We’d found Delilah. I saw the relief and the euphoria in your eyes. This meant everything to you.

“And then the results came back. Negative. Not a match. I was incredulous. I was devastated. It was impossible. It couldn’t be. I thought of how I’d tell you, the words I’d say. I practiced. But when the time came, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take her away from you again. I’m so sorry, Josh. In some inane way, I thought I was doing the right thing, for you, for her. I thought if no one knew the truth, what harm would it do?”

Dad openly cries. I can’t bad-mouth him this time because I feel it, too, a black hole inside me.

The one question remaining now is why you thought Dad was your dad when he’s not.

We go into the room with you. It’s like taking that long final walk to the execution chamber. I sit down in a chair next to you. Dad sits across from me. He can’t bring himself to look at you. The lady cop doesn’t come in with us. After her confession, she was led away by some superior officer with her head hung low. There will be some form of discipline for what she’s done. Not only did she lie, but she tampered with police records. She’ll probably get canned. Maybe have charges pressed against her, too. I don’t know.

Instead of her, it’s someone else asking the questions now, a man cop. He doesn’t sit at all. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “What made you believe this man is your father?”

There’s a tremor to your voice. “He’s not?”

Your face falls. You’re helpless, confused. Your eyes go to Dad, who’s crying. That’s your answer.

“No. He’s not.”

You blink over and over again like there’s an eyelash in your eye. You’re mute at first. You pull your legs into you. You rock on the chair. It’s raw, primal. It’s hard to watch. Tears pool in your eyes and then slip down your cheeks. That’s how I know you’re not lying. You honest to God believe him to be your dad. You say to him, “You are. You are my daddy,” and then even I’m crying, too.