Page 18 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"You're not sure you want them?"
"I want to know the truth," I said slowly. "I just hope this time the test is negative."
The admission hung between us. After all this time, after coming to Kentucky specifically to find my biological father, I was hoping Boyd Biggs wasn't him. Hoping the DNA facial recognition would show no relationship, that the whole nightmare scenario would evaporate.
But even as I articulated the hope, I knew it was dangerous. The universe had a way of laughing at wishes like that, of delivering exactly the opposite of what you wanted just to prove a point. Every time I'd hoped for something simple, straightforward and easy, fate had twisted the knife deeper.
"That would be the best outcome," Jett agreed quietly. "For a lot of reasons."
We returned to our work, filling the remaining jars in silence. The candles began to solidify, their surfaces developing a characteristic matte finish. Jett showed me how to trim the wicks to the proper length, how to affix the labels at just the right spot.
"These will be ready to sell by the weekend," he said with satisfaction, surveying our production. "Christmas market season is starting soon. Honey candles always sell well."
I picked up one of the finished products, holding it to the light. The wax glowed translucent, the honey visible as darker swirls within. Something about it felt symbolic—sweetness and light containing darker elements, everything blended into something whole.
"Thank you for teaching me," I said.
"You're good at learning and working with your hands. You fit in here."
The words created a warmth in my chest. I fit in here. When had I ever fit in anywhere before?
November 18, Tuesday
aging floora specific level in a rickhouse; different floors age bourbon at different rates
THE LABwaiting room chair felt too hard, the fluorescent lights too bright, the ticking clock on the wall too loud. I'd arrived fifteen minutes early for my appointment, unable to sit still in my van any longer.
My hands wouldn't stop trembling. I'd tried everything—clasping them together, sitting on them, gripping the arms of the chair—but the tremors persisted. A physical manifestation of the anxiety that had been building for days.
The door to the interior offices opened and Miranda appeared, clipboard in hand. Our eyes met and something in her expression made my stomach drop. She knew. She'd already seen the results.
"Bernadette? We're ready for you."
I followed her down the sterile hallway on legs that felt disconnected from my body. The fluorescent tubes hummed overhead. Somewhere a phone rang, then stopped. Normal sounds in a building where people's entire lives changed with a few printed pages.
Miranda led me to a small consultation room—a table, two chairs, a box of tissues prominently displayed. The tissues felt ominous, like the lab expected emotional reactions and had come prepared.
"Have a seat," she said gently, closing the door behind us.
I sank into the chair across from her, watching as she opened a blue folder.
"I want to start by reminding you that DNA facial recognition is a predictive technology," Miranda began, her voice professional but kind. "It analyzes genetic markers that influence facial features and compares them to photographic evidence. While it's quite accurate, it's not as definitive as direct DNA comparison."
"I understand." The words came out hoarse.
She slid a printed report across the table toward me. My eyes struggled to focus on the text, the technical language swimming before me. Then I found the relevant section, the conclusion buried in scientific terminology:
Based on comparative analysis of genetic facial markers and photographic evidence, there is a high probability of biological relatedness between Subject A (Bernadette Waters) and Subject B (photographic comparison). Estimated probability: 78.6%
The numbers blurred. High probability. Biological relatedness.
Boyd Biggs was my father.
I gripped the edge of the table, anchoring myself to something solid while my world restructured itself around this new reality.
"Are you alright?" Miranda's hand appeared in my peripheral vision, moving the tissue box closer. "Do you need a moment?"
I nodded, unable to form words. Emotions crashed over me in waves—elation that I'd finally found him, the man I'd been searching for since my mother's death. Relief that I had an answer, a name, a face that connected to my own. But alongside those feelings came dread so thick it threatened to suffocate me.
