Strangers We Know

Blood doesn’t lie, or so the saying goes. I just wish I knew whether that applies to adopted blood. Does adopted blood most closely identify with those who gave it life? Or does the family who raised the adopted blood have the most influence? Nature or nurture—I’d love to know what’s responsible for the splitting headache burrowing into my skull.

I slide into a corner booth, then scan the café. A lone man sits at a table on the other side of the room, scrolling on his phone, while a barista checks her manicure from behind a silver counter at the front. The gurgling of a coffee machine fills the shop. It’s as good a spot as any to work outside my apartment for the first time in weeks, while I wait for the results of my genetics test.

Before my symptoms began six months ago, I used to edit all the time in this café. But then piercing headaches, a low-grade fever, all-over muscle aches fit for a retiree, and fatigue that left me lying in bed for hours at a time made it a challenge to go grocery shopping, let alone walk seven blocks. It’s nice to be out in the world again—among people but not directly next to them.

I open my laptop. The reflection of the painted script on the glass wall beside me—GINNY’S JOE—covers my screen until I angle it toward my face. Black hair pulled back in a crown braid emphasizes the eyes I’ve always considered strangely large and the bump in my nose that shows I’m not full Chinese.

The cursor returns my stare from a page filled with text. Marketing copy I need to copyedit, from a client whose deadline I’ve already pushed out twice.

A scone would be nice. Maybe another coffee.

At the counter, I pay for both items, then return to my seat. Settled back in front of the document, I watch the blinking cursor. The steady rhythm is almost hypnotizing, and the truth hits me: I don’t want to work. Despite residual pain in my shins, today is the first day I’ve had the energy to venture to a café, and I want to enjoy it.

One of San Francisco’s iconic cable cars turns onto the street. People clutch the brass bars, skin of all colors on display in the shorts and tank tops that tourists wear in August. I smile, then reach into the oversize shoulder bag that doubles as a laptop carrier and withdraw the crossword I’ve nearly finished. Twenty-two down is the final clue needed.

“What is a three-letter word for regret?” I mutter out loud.

“Rue.”

I look up. A man in a suit jacket and tie stands before me. Sweat glistens across his forehead.

“Ivy Hon?” He flashes a badge from the inside of his jacket. “Special Agent Ballo. Mind if I join?”

He waits for me to reply, knobby knuckles resting on the back of a chair. Thick eyebrows balance out a broad nose and grizzled jawline. His ears were pierced at one point. He’s probably in his late fifties.

I nod, too startled to decline. “Up to you.”

Is this guy really FBI? How would the FBI know what café I visit—or used to?

He takes a seat. Signals to the barista for a black coffee with oat milk. Very San Francisco.

“It is, isn’t it? Rue?”

I look at the crossword. “Yeah. Good pull.”

He smiles. “Sorry to surprise you like this. I planned to catch you at home, but you were on your way out when I arrived. These conversations are always easier in person. Have you ever been to the Pacific Northwest?”

“No. I don’t travel much.”

“Okay. Have you ever heard of the Full Moon Killer?”

A pot falls behind the counter, hitting the tile with a clang that scrapes my ears. “No. Should I have?”

Ballo presses his lips together. “Not exactly, Ivy. Just trying to get a baseline here. The Full Moon Killer was primarily active in the Pacific Northwest from the late eighties to the early aughts. His target was young women—teenagers and twentysomethings. Eight victims have been ID’d as his over the years. His MO was to kill during the full moon.”

Ballo leans back in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking dangerously. “Any of this ring a bell?”

“Should it?” I take a sip from my cup, wondering more than ever why he’s approached me—why me?

“The first girl murdered was seventeen-year-old Stacey Perez,” he continues. “High school cheerleader, honor-roll student. She was killed under a full moon while running out for a jug of milk so her mother could make horchata. Her body was found in the Columbia River, poisoned, then strangled.”

I shudder. “That’s horrible.”

The barista drops off a white ceramic mug filled to the brim. Agent Ballo selects a sugar packet from a ramekin at the side of the table.

“The second victim was Geri Hauser, a college student home from Washington State for the summer. Also discovered in the Columbia after the full moon, poisoned and bludgeoned.”

My stomach twists as I imagine the scene. “How awful.” I imitate him, grabbing a sugar packet, then adding sweetener to my latte for something to do. “But what can I help you with?”

“More victims followed, but the Full Moon Killer took a break for several years. From 2006 on, no one else was killed in Washington or Oregon according to this pattern until last month—Katrina Oates, a day-care provider.”

I tap the paper wrapper of the fake sugar with my finger. Make the crystals bounce on the tabletop. “But why was Stacey strangled, and Geri bludgeoned?”

He raises both eyebrows, as if impressed that I’m paying attention.

“I’m a copyeditor,” I add. “I notice details for a living.”

“Stacey and Geri were likely his first, when he was still getting the hang of things. Serial killers tend to experiment before settling into a consistent routine.”

“Okay. If the bodies were found after the full moon, and the timing isn’t exact, why the nickname the ‘Full Moon Killer’?”

Ballo waves a hand. “Forensics confirmed that’s when they died, and both women disappeared on the night of a full moon.”

“And when is the next full moon?”

He narrows his brown eyes on mine. “Thirteen days.”

Air-conditioning kicks on from the vent above. I hug my elbows, wishing I’d brought a jacket for warmth. “Look, Agent Ballo, I’m sure you’re very busy. I’m still not grasping why you approached me.”

“You recently submitted your DNA for genetic analysis. You’re adopted.”

A chill kisses the back of my neck, independent of the AC.

“You signed a privacy waiver that uploads your results to a national database,” he continues. “The bureau searches that database for links to major crimes.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” I shake my head, genuinely confused by his train of thought. He’s not suggesting . . . What is he suggesting?

I stare at this man. This FBI agent. At his fist now tapping the table, punctuating words that don’t make sense. His pursed mouth and the stubble along his jaw.

“You’re saying I haven’t received my results yet, but the FBI has? How did you know I’m adopted?”

Agent Ballo takes a sip of coffee. “Tell me, Ivy. What do you know about your birth family?”

I glance past him to the blonde, plucky barista counting mugs and lining up ramekins to refill. She laughs at something someone out of sight in the kitchen says—both of them are blissfully ignorant of our conversation. My shoulders sag forward and new fatigue coats my frame. Visiting this café while I was just getting past a flare-up was a risk. Energy seems to leach from my fingertips the longer I sit idle. “Not much.”

Agent Ballo sets his cup down. “You’ve never had any contact with them? Have you ever wanted any?”

“No. None.” I first learned I was adopted when I was seven and old enough to understand what that meant: my birth mother couldn’t raise me, but my adoptive parents were ecstatic to round out their family with a baby girl; I was loved deeply, almost from day one. And though I sometimes felt at odds with my laser-focused parents and brother, I never contacted my birth family. Nor they me.

“Any letters from your relatives? Any belongings, sentimental items, or paperwork from them?”

Beside us outside, two teenage girls chatter excitedly on the sidewalk. The taller one holds a cell phone up at an angle high enough to pop a vertebra loose. They selfie. When was the last time I pressed my cheek to someone else’s, besides my cat’s? Or shared a coffee in a café? And now, when I leave my apartment for the first time in weeks, some federal agent tracks me down.

After my mom passed away two years ago, I stopped returning friends’ calls; I couldn’t handle someone else eventually letting me down—leaving me like she had, like my dad did. The mysterious flare-ups that no doctor has been able to diagnose have given me justification to withdraw even further.

Agent Ballo leans closer. “Your DNA is like a blueprint, unique to you, right? When people add their test results to the national database, sometimes there’s overlap between two individuals—some matching DNA segments that suggest two people share a common ancestor. When these segments are compellingly long, we start thinking—maybe these people share a closer ancestor than anyone realized.”

“Are you saying you found my birth parents?” I wince against the new ache in my temples. Half-formed thoughts and fears spark in my mind, but I can’t make sense of Agent Ballo’s words.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he withdraws a business card from his jacket’s inner pocket. A handwritten phone number is on one side.

“I’d appreciate it if you kept our visit to yourself, Ivy. And if you think of anything about your relatives—or find anything from them—please reach out.”

Cutlery clangs together behind the counter, and the lone man four tables over slams his laptop shut, each noise stabbing my nerves. I lick my lips and taste the coffee’s acidity once more. “What’s so interesting about them?”

Agent Ballo folds his hands on the tabletop. “It’s more about you and your test results, Ivy. We’ve been hunting the Full Moon Killer for decades now. Comparing the genetic database with partial samples left behind at crime scenes, we’ve been able to identify a segment of DNA that the two of you share.”

I gape at him, openmouthed. “So you’re saying . . . What are you saying?”

“We believe that you may be related to the Full Moon Killer. And we need your help to finally find the bastard.”