Free Blood Atonement by Dan Waddell

seconds…
    He found a place where they could sit, him leaning back against the rough bark of a pine tree, her against his chest, his hand stroking her hair. She recounted her mother and father’s discussion of a few nights before, feeling his body stiffen when she mentioned Hesker Pettibone’s name. When she finished, he said nothing.
    He remained silent for what seemed an age. ‘They are trying to force me to leave,’ he said eventually.
    She sat up and looked at him. ‘What? Who is?’
    ‘My father. My elder brothers. My uncles. Their friends.’
    ‘But whatever for? You do so much good work for them.’
    ‘I know. It is not just me. The other day, Isaac Canfield was set upon and beaten. By his own kin. He’s no longer welcome in his own home.’
    “I don’t understand.’
    ‘Because we are young, Sarah. And they are old. And there are few young, women like you. They suppose you would prefer me as a husband — or Isaac Canfield — rather than Hesker Pettibone, for example.’
    And they would be correct.’
    She shuddered, laid her head on his chest once more. “I would rather die than become a breeding mare for that fat pig.’
    ‘Then when I leave, I will take you with me,’ he said plainly and with absolute certainty.
    They lay there with only the sounds of the secluded wood and their thoughts. She thought of her sisters and brothers. How much she loved them and how much they would miss her when she was gone. How much she would miss them. The thought broke her heart.
    Yet she knew there and she knew then that she would follow Horton to the ends of the earth.
     
    Nigel hurried past the fountains and pond in front of The National Archives, bag banging against his hip as he moved. Outside the main door he could see Heather and
    Foster waiting, the latter pacing back and forth, clouds of breath billowing from his nostrils in the late autumn chill, like an impatient bull. Heather saw him approaching, nudged Foster and pointed. He immediately placed both
    hands on his hips in a familiar pose that, despite its
    inherent irascibility, caused Nigel to smile. Injury had not withered him.
    ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Nigel gasped.
    ‘Well, you’re here now,’ Foster said.
    ‘How are you, by the way?’ Nigel asked. The last time
    he’d seen him was in a wheelchair at Karl Hogg’s funeral.
    ‘I’d be a lot better if people stopped asking me how I
    am,’ he replied. Then he smiled and gave Nigel a wink.
    ‘It’s called small talk, sir,’ Heather interjected.
    ‘Yeah. Small talk, big waste of time,’ Foster said, smile vanishing. ‘Come on, let’s get inside and I’ll tell you what’s what.’
    On first impressions, Nigel thought, Foster didn’t seem
    transformed by his ordeal. He followed them to a table in the canteen.
    ‘I need to be somewhere else in ten minutes … actually, make that five now,’ Foster said, looking at his watch once more. He was due to interview Trevor Vickers. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I know you’ve delved a bit into Katie Drake’s background. We’d like you to delve a bit more.’
    ‘What do you mean by “a bit more”?’
    ‘Into her maternal line.’
    Nigel furrowed his brow. A few months ago, Foster
    had had nothing but disdain for genealogy, now he was
    talking about researching the ‘maternal line’.
    ‘Can I ask why?’
    ‘Let’s just say there’s a chance, an outside chance, that the person who killed her and abducted her daughter is some sort of distant relation. So if possible, we need to know anyone who might be alive today who shared a common maternal ancestor.’
    Heather spoke. ‘We found a hair at the crime scene.
    There are any number of explanations for how it might
    have ended up on the victim’s clothing. But one is that the killer left it — and, even if it wasn’t, then the person who it belongs to is someone we’d like to speak to. Our problem is that we can’t get a full DN A profile from it. All we could get out of it was