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Go over to the computer and type in Clyde T. Parsons and Tuckerville and see what comes up, he told himself.
Maybe he has family, he recalled Clementine saying.
That’s of no concern to me, he recalled himself snapping back.
And it wasn’t, he reminded himself. But he did have low-level basic curiosity about the man who’d fathered him. Did Parsons have siblings? Parents? Other children?
Not that they were any kin of his. Just because you shared DNA didn’t make you family. Being there made you family. Giving a damn made you family. Taking responsibility made you family. But that DNA meant something in and of itself. Unfortunately. He shook his head at how danged complicated the whole thing was. Was, wasn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t, should, shouldn’t, is, isn’t. What the hell had happened to things being black or white? Gray areas were murky. Logan hated murky.
He forced himself over to the laptop computer on the living room desk and sat down. In the search bar, he typed in Clyde T. Parsons and Tuckerville, Texas, and hit Enter.
An obituary came up. A short obituary.
Clyde T. Parsons, Tuckerville: Clyde Turnbull Parsons was born on September 3, 1966 in Austin, Texas, to Dotty and Delmont Parsons, who predeceased him. A traveling man who supported himself as a ranch hand, Clyde lived all over the state of Texas and spent the last two years in Tuckerville. A funeral is scheduled for Sunday, August 27 at three o’clock in the afternoon at the Tuckerville Funeral Home.
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