His Kidnapper's Shoes by Maggie James Page B

into it. ‘You wearing that black silk thong I like so much?’
    The phone call didn’t end for another hour. Sated and grinning, he sat down afterwards at his computer, typing ‘private DNA tests UK’ into Google. He browsed through a few sites, bookmarking one that thankfully explained the science bits in plain language. The test could be done with hair samples and through the post, as Katie had told him.
    He read a bit further into the website he'd bookmarked.
    Shit. Apparently, consent forms came with the kit they sent out; the testing company required his mother’s agreement to do the procedure. He wouldn’t be asking for her permission any time that century, he thought.
    Daniel considered his options. All two of them.
    First one. He could stop this, right now, and put the whole thing behind him.
    Not going to happen, he told himself.
    Second one. He could falsify her consent.
    By the time he clicked off the website, he'd ordered the test kit. No going back now.
    The next day was Sunday, and he’d promised his mother he’d go over as usual for lunch. He felt like a total asshole when he thought about what he was going to do. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t invade her privacy; so what did he think sneaking into her bedroom to steal a hair sample was, if not exactly that? He was betraying her trust; whether he related to her as his mother or not, he knew he meant the world to her. She'd be devastated if she ever realised he held more warmth in his heart towards the unknown woman from his memories than he did towards her.
    I’m an asshole, all right, he thought, but I’m going to do this anyway. I have to.
    It didn’t prove hard to get what he’d gone for. He’d brought with him an envelope for the purpose. He excused himself shortly before the time came to go, saying he needed to use the toilet.
    He went into the bedroom that his mother shared with his stepfather. No sign of a hairbrush on the dressing table. Then he spotted a handbag on the floor by the wardrobe. He pulled it open and reached in a hand.
    Bingo. A large wooden hairbrush, complete with tangles of hair clogged in the bristles. There was plenty, surely enough for the test. Looking closer, he saw tiny pale bulbs attached to the ends of some of the hair. He started pulling hair from the brush, stuffing it in the envelope.
    The test kit arrived two days later. He picked up the envelope of hair and started looking through the blonde strands. By the time he finished, he’d found six hairs with the roots on. The bare minimum required, but it would have to do. He took another envelope and started to pull hairs from his head, one by one, until he ended up with six with the roots attached.
    He’d seen his mother’s signature often enough to be able to do a reasonable copy. Besides, the testing company would never know otherwise anyway. The kit would go in tomorrow’s post. They’d get it Thursday, postal service allowing. He reckoned he’d get the results by Friday of the following week, maybe even earlier. He refused to think about what he’d do if the test showed she wasn’t his mother. One step at a time, he told himself.
    He still felt shitty about what he'd done. He’d phone Katie. She’d reassure him, they’d make plans and by the time they ended the call he’d be able to deal a lot better with all this. Hell, they’d probably have themselves some hot dirty phone sex again.
    He grinned, and pulled out his mobile.
    After he sent the test kit off, he did his best to put the whole thing out of his mind. Katie played the same game. She merely nodded when he told her he’d sent off the kit, asked him to call her as soon as he got the results, and changed the subject.
    To pass the time, he turned back to his art, which he’d neglected since meeting Katie. Paint, brushes and canvas helped keep his thoughts at bay. He’d dabbled in all forms of painting since he was a child, finally settling on acrylics as his chosen medium, revelling