“We need more than DNA,” Julian argued, scrolling frantically through the digital archives of the *New York Gazette* on his tablet. “If we go to William with this, he might think we faked it. Malcolm is a lawyer; he’ll destroy the chain of custody.”
“What are you looking for?” Maya asked.
“A phenotype marker,” Julian said. “Something genetic that skips the environment. When I spoke to Malcolm in the driveway, I noticed a small, port-wine stain on the back of his neck, right at the hairline. William doesn’t have it.”
He pulled up a high-resolution black-and-white photograph from 1990: *Arthur Croft at the Groundbreaking of the West Wing.* Julian zoomed in on William’s late father.
There, just visible above the collar of his suit, was the exact same dark smudge.
“There,” Julian pointed, his finger trembling. “Arthur had it. Malcolm has it. William doesn’t.”
He looked at Maya. “Beatrice kept the heir who looked perfect and threw away the one with the mark. Malcolm isn’t just a twin; he’s the discarded copy.”