Page 11 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"I agree. Call and make an appointment. I'll find some good photos of Boyd."
"Okay. Thanks, Octavia."
I ended the call and hope fluttered in my chest. If the test was negative, I could try to repair things with Dylan. And if the test was positive…
I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
November 11, Tuesday
warehouse proofthe proof level of bourbon as it comes out of the barrel
THE LABoccupied the same sterile building where I'd accompanied Tom Feldon weeks ago, though walking through the entrance alone felt entirely different, armed with a thumb drive of a dozen photographs of Boyd Biggs that Octavia had managed to find.
The receptionist checked me in with professional efficiency, and within minutes I found myself in a small examination room with a lab technician named Miranda. She was younger than I'd expected, maybe early thirties, with her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
"So we'll be doing facial mapping today," Miranda said, setting up a specialized camera on a tripod. "The process is straightforward. I'll photograph your face from multiple angles—front, both profiles, various tilts. The camera captures measurements down to fractions of a millimeter."
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
"Have a seat here." She gestured to a stool positioned in front of a white backdrop. "Try to keep your expression neutral—no smiling or frowning. We want your face in its natural resting state."
I perched on the stool, hyperaware of every muscle in my face.
Miranda adjusted the camera height, then held out her hand. "And you brought the comparison photographs?"
I handed over the thumb drive with trembling fingers. She inserted the drive and pulled up the images of Boyd Biggs ranging from a high school senior portrait to more recentphotographs. I had studied the photos ad nauseum, fascinated by how his face had aged over the years. He was still a handsome man.
Miranda studied the first photograph, her expression pleasant and professional. Then something shifted. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Wait, is this Boyd—" She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze flicking from the photo to my face and back again. Her mouth opened, then closed. "Never mind."
My stomach dropped. She recognized him. Of course she recognized him. Boyd Biggs was all over the media in central Kentucky.
Miranda set the photographs aside, her cheeks flushed. "I apologize. That was unprofessional." She busied herself with camera adjustments, not meeting my eyes. "I need to remind you that everything we do here is completely confidential. All DNA analysis, facial recognition, paternity testing—it's all protected under medical privacy laws. Nothing leaves this lab without your explicit written consent."
The reassurance should have been comforting, but my heart hammered against my ribs. She knew. She'd put two and two together in an instant. A nobody tour guide submitting Boyd Biggs's photographs for facial recognition testing—the implication was obvious.
I wanted to believe her. Needed to believe her. But paranoia gnawed at my composure. What if she mentioned it to a coworker over coffee? What if she told a friend about the interesting case that came through the lab? What if word somehow filtered back to the Biggs family before I had answers?
I'd already handed over the photographs. Already committed to this course of action. There was no turning back now.
"Let's get started." Miranda returned to the camera, her professional mask firmly in place. "Look straight at the lens. Keep your face relaxed."
I stared into the camera's dark eye while it clicked and whirred, capturing my bone structure, my genetic inheritance, the features that might or might not match Boyd Biggs's DNA. Each photograph felt like evidence being collected at a crime scene.
"Turn your head slowly to the right. Good. Now the left."
Miranda worked methodically, adjusting angles and lighting, taking dozens of shots. The whole process took maybe twenty minutes, but it felt like hours. Sweat dampened my palms despite the room's clinical coolness.
"All finished." Miranda powered down the camera. "The analysis takes a few days. We'll call you when the results are ready."
Days to wait and wonder and worry about whether I'd just made a catastrophic mistake trusting this lab tech with information that could implode multiple lives.
I stood on shaky legs. "Thank you."
"Of course." Miranda's smile was kind but careful, maintaining that professional distance. "We'll be in touch soon."
I left the lab and sat in my van for several long minutes, gripping the steering wheel and staring at nothing. The photographs of Boyd Biggs remained in that building, being fed into algorithms that would compare his features to mine. The secret I'd been guarding so carefully was now in the hands of strangers.
