Birthright

sound behind him.
    The blow had him sprawling facedown. He moaned once as he was rolled toward the pond, but was already sliding under the pain when his head slipped under the water.
    O kay, here’s the basic grid.” Jake used drawing paper while Callie manned the computer.
    After some debate, they’d agreed to work in his office. For the first two hours, they worked against the noise from the action movie one of the team had rented. Now the house had gone quiet around them, except for the sound of Leo’s gentle snoring from the living room sofa.
    She looked over from the screen, studied what he’d done. She had to admit, the man was good.
    He had her as the central point, with her parents on one side, the Cullens on the other. Out of each set, relevant names were connected.
    Henry Simpson, Marcus Carlyle, Richard Carlyle, the Boston pediatrician, the names of their known staff were listed in sections on her parents’ side.
    The names from the lists Suzanne and Betsy Poffenberger had provided were arranged on the other side.
    “You’re the single known connection,” he began. “Butthere must be others. That’s what we need to find. Over here’s your dateline. The stillbirth, your date of birth, the first appointment your parents had with Carlyle and so on.”
    “We fill in known data on each one of these names,” Callie added.
    “And we find the connections. Did you eat the last cookie?”
    “I did not eat the last cookie. You ate the last cookie. And you drank the last of the coffee. So you go make more coffee, and I’ll type in the known data.”
    “You make better coffee.”
    “I also type faster.”
    “I don’t make as many typos.”
    “I’m sitting in the chair.”
    “All right, have it your way. But don’t give me a rash of grief when it tastes like swamp water.”
    She smirked as he stalked out. He hated making the coffee. Just one of those odd personal things. He’d wash dishes, cook—as long as it was some form of breakfast. He’d even do laundry without much complaint. But he always bitched about making coffee.
    Therefore, whenever she finagled him into it, she felt a nice glow of accomplishment.
    They were falling back into old patterns, she thought. With a few new and interesting variations. They weren’t fighting as much, or certainly not in the same way. For some reason one or both of them seemed to ease back before it got ugly.
    They certainly weren’t jumping between the sheets at every opportunity. That . . . restraint, she supposed, added a sort of appealing tension to the whole thing.
    They still wanted each other—that part of the pattern would never change. Even after the divorce, when she’d been thousands of miles away from him in every possible way, she’d wanted him.
    Just to roll over in the night and have her body bump against his. And the way he’d sometimes hooked his arm around her waist to keep her there.
    She’d ached for that, for him.
    She hoped he’d ached for her. She hoped he’d cursed her name the way she’d cursed his. And suffered.
    If he’d loved her as much as she’d loved him, he’d never have walked away. He would never have been able to walk away no matter how hard she’d pushed.
    If he’d ever told her what she’d needed to hear, she wouldn’t have had to push.
    When she felt the old resentment and anger begin to brew she shut it down. That was over, she reminded herself. That was done.
    Some things were better off left buried.
    She ordered her mind to clear so she could concentrate on the data she was bringing up. Then she yawned as she noted the article on Henry Simpson.
    “What the hell good is a stupid fluff piece on some charity golf tournament?”
    She started to bypass it, then made herself stop. Just like sieving the spoil, she reminded herself. It might be grunt work, but it was a necessary step.
    “How long does it take to make a damn pot of coffee?” she wondered and propped her chin on her elbow as she read the article.
    She nearly missed it. Her eyes had moved on before her brain registered the information. Her finger jerked on the mouse, then slowly scrolled back.
    “We’re out of milk,” Jake announced as he came back in with the coffeepot. “So no matter how bad it is, you drink it black.”
    He lowered the pot as she turned her head and he saw her face.
    “What did you find?”
    “A connection. Barbara Simpson, née Halloway.”
    “Halloway. Barbara Halloway. The maternity-ward nurse.”
    “It’s