Birthright

lie with a quick, breathless laugh. “If you have any questions, any at all about the report or the ones that follow, please ask either myself or Dr. Greenbaum. I’ll be spending most of my time right here, on-site. I won’t be hard to find.”
    He started to bluster again, but she hurried off to introduce herself to the camera crew.
    “Slick,” Lana murmured. “Very slick.”
    “Thanks.” She squatted down and studied the little boy. “Hi. You the reporter?”
    “No.” He giggled, and his mossy-green eyes twinkled with fun. “You’re gonna be on TV. Mommy said I could watch.”
    “Tyler, this is Dr. Dunbrook. She’s the scientist who studies old, old things.”
    “Bones and stuff,” Tyler declared. “Like Indiana Jones. How come you don’t have a whip like he does?”
    “I left it back at the motel.”
    “Okay. Did you ever see a dinosaur?”
    Callie figured he was getting his movies mixed up and winked at him. “I sure have. Dinosaur bones. But they’re not my specialty. I like human bones.” She gave his arm a testing squeeze. “I bet you’ve got some good ones. You have Mom bring you by sometime and I’ll let you dig. Maybe you’ll find some.”
    “Really? Can I? Really? ” Overwhelmed, he danced on his Nikes, tugged on Lana’s hand. “Please?”
    “If Dr. Dunbrook says it’s okay. That’s nice of you,” she said to Callie.
    “I like kids,” Callie said as she rose. “They haven’t learned how to shut down to possibilities. I’m going to get this done.” She ran her hand over his sun-shot hair. “See you later, Ty-Rex.”
    S uzanne Cullen experimented with a new recipe. Her kitchen was equal parts science lab and homey haven. Once she’d baked because she enjoyed it and because it was something a housewife did. She’d often laughed over the suggestions that she open her own bakery.
    She was a wife, then a mother, not a businesswoman. She’d never aspired to a career outside the home.
    Then, she’d baked to escape her own pain. To give herself something to occupy her mind other than her own guilt and misery and fears.
    She’d buried herself in cookie dough and piecrusts andcake batter. And all in all, she’d found it a more effective therapy than all the counseling, all the prayers, all the public appearances.
    When her life, her marriage, her world had continued to fall apart, baking had been a constant. Suddenly, she had wanted more. She had needed more.
    Suzanne’s Kitchen had been born in an ordinary, even uninspired room in a neat little house a stone’s throw from the house where she grew up. She’d sold to local markets at first, and had done everything—the buying, the planning, the baking, the packaging and delivery—herself.
    Within five years, the demand had been great enough for her to hire help, to buy a van and to take her products countywide.
    Within ten, she’d gone national.
    Though she no longer did the baking herself, and the packaging, distribution and publicity were handled by various arms of her corporation, Suzanne still liked to spend time in her own kitchen, formulating new recipes.
    She lived in a big house snuggled well back on a rise and guarded from the road by woods. And she lived alone.
    Her kitchen was huge and sunny, with acres of bold blue counters, four professional ovens and two ruthlessly organized pantries. Its atrium doors led out to a slate patio and several theme gardens if she felt the need for fresh air. There was a cozy sofa and overstuffed chair near a bay window if she wanted to curl up, and a fully equipped computer center if she needed to note down a recipe or check one already in her files.
    The room was the largest of any in the house, and she could happily spend an entire day never leaving it.
    At fifty-two, she was a very rich woman who could have lived anywhere in the world, done anything she desired. She desired to bake and to live in the community of her birth.
    Though she had chosen the wall-screen TV for entertainment rather than music, she hummed as she whipped eggs and cream in a bowl.
    When she heard the five-thirty news come on, shestopped work long enough to pour herself a glass of wine. She sampled the filling she was mixing, closed her eyes and considered as she rolled the taste on her tongue.
    She added a tablespoon of vanilla. Mixed, sampled, approved. And noted the addition meticulously on her pad.
    She caught the mention of Woodsboro on the television and, picking up her wine, turned to