Identical by Scott Turow

understand what they’re talking about. So maybe there’s a way to tell twins apart these days.”
    They talked for a second about what would happen next. She’d find a DNA expert and then would have to consult with Hal’s lawyers. Tooley had brought in a big firm after Paul filed suit, although Mel was still pretty much in charge. All of the lawyers would raise hell that they couldn’t talk to Georgia, but Hal would take Evon’s side when he saw today’s recording.
    “I’ll call you,” she said. Tim nodded, but he was looking a little beaten up. He clearly didn’t like thinking he’d missed the boat, as he’d said at his house. And that stuff about his daughter probably hadn’t helped either. Evon had never thought about children until a couple of years ago, when she realized how quickly the world was changing. Now that she was fifty the moment had likely passed her by. But given how badly she occasionally missed the baby she’d never had, she couldn’t imagine the pain of losing a child you’d held in your arms.
    “I know it was a long time ago,” she said, “but I’m sorry about Kate, Tim. I’m sure it’s still hard for you.”
    He nodded again in the same labored way.
    “Something like that,” said Tim. “It just doesn’t go way. It’s more than thirty-five years. Katy could be dead of God knows what else by now, or had to bury children of her own. You accept that it happened. But you know that life burned this hole in your heart and it’s not going to heal.” She could feel his composure starting to wither as he struggled out of the car, casting his bad leg around his body as he walked off.
    By the time he got into the house, the full weight of his life was on Tim. He sat down in the living room, still in his overcoat, slumped forward with his big hands between his knees, lacking the will to move any further. He didn’t succumb to this very often. Everybody had things to be sad about, especially when you got to this age and carried with you the thought, only barely submerged, that the end wasn’t far off. But there had been times throughout his life when a sadness thick as glue had immobilized him. As a younger man, he would drink at these moments. Older, he’d just learned to talk himself through it.
    When he was born, Tim’s family, the five of them, had lived in a one-bedroom third-story walk-up, about a mile from here. He was the baby, the unexpected child who came eight years after his brother, ten years after his sister. His mother was a frail woman whose nose was always running and who seemed beleaguered by her life. It was his father who held it all together. He was a big man, bigger even than Tim grew to become, who roared rather than spoke, and generally extolled life, and certainly his children and his wife. Whenever he arrived home, Tim was overjoyed.
    When Tim was six, his father, a yardman on the Chicago and North Western, fell between two cars and was killed, sliced in half, according to accounts Tim heard years later. His mother was simply beyond herself, shattered by her husband’s death. Tim’s sister, sixteen then, left home, and his brother was parceled out to his mother’s sister. But at the age of six, a bit rambunctious, and morose with the loss of his father, Tim was too much for any relative to take on and his mother deposited him with a brown lacquered valise at St. Mary’s Home, telling him she would be back for him soon. She never came. He cried himself to sleep for over a year.
    Most of his buddies on the Force who had Catholic educations tended to down-talk the nuns, telling stories about how the sisters rapped their knuckles with rulers, making out most of them as these dried-up, sexually deprived bitches who’d found their marriage to God as unhappy as everybody else’s. But the sisters and brothers who cared for Tim at St. Mary’s-and him not even born Catholic-they had saved his life. They were kind, and full of faith in the goodness and potential