Birthright

know you’re my child.”
    “I want you to go.” Callie moved to the door. Her knees were starting to shake. “I want you to go now.”
    Leaving the photographs on the bed, Suzanne rose. “You were born at four thirty-five in the morning, at Washington County Hospital in Hagerstown, Maryland. We named you Jessica Lynn.”
    She took another picture out of her bag, set it on the bed. “That’s a copy of the photograph taken shortly after you were born. Hospitals do that for families. Have you ever seen a picture of yourself before you were three months old?”
    She paused a moment, then stepped to the door. Indulged herself by brushing her hand over Callie’s. “Ask them. My address and phone number are with the pictures. Ask them,” she said again and hurried out.
    Trembling, Callie shut the door, leaned back against it.
    It was crazy. The woman was sad and deluded. And crazy. Losing a child had snapped her brain or something. How could you blame her? She probably saw her daughter in every face that held any remote resemblance.
    More than remote, Callie’s mind whispered as she studied the photographs on the bed. Strong, almost uncanny resemblance.
    It didn’t mean anything. It was insane to think otherwise.
    Her parents weren’t baby thieves, for God’s sake. They were kind, loving, interesting people. The kind who would feel nothing but compassion for someone like Suzanne Cullen.
    The resemblance, the age similarity, they were only coincidences.
    Ask them.
    How could you ask your own parents such a thing? Hey, Mom, did you happen to be in the mall in Maryland around Christmas in ’seventy-four? Did you pick up a baby along with some last-minute gifts?
    “God.” She pressed her hand to her belly as it roiled. “Oh God.”
    At the knock on the door she whirled around, yanked it open. “I told you I’m not . . . What the hell do you want?”
    “Share a beer?” Jake clanged the two bottles he held by the necks. “Truce?”
    “I don’t want a beer, and there’s no need for a truce. I’m not interested enough to have a fight with you, therefore, a truce is moot.”
    “Not like you to turn down a free beer at the end of the day.”
    “You’re right.” She snagged one, then booted the door. It would have slammed satisfactorily in his face, but he’d always been quick.
    “Hey. Trying to be friendly here.”
    “Go be friendly with someone else. You’re good at it.”
    “Ah, that sounds like interested enough to fight to me.”
    “Get lost, Graystone. I’m not in the mood.” She turned her back on him and spotted her wedding ring on the dresser. Shit. Perfect. She stalked over, laid a hand over it and drew the chain into her fist.
    “The Callie Dunbrook we all know and love is always in the mood to fight.” He sauntered toward the bed as she jammed the ring and chain into her pocket. “What’s this? Looking at family pictures?”
    She spun around and went pale as ice. “Why do you say that?”
    “Because they’re on the bed. Who’s this? Your grandmother? Never met her, did I? Then again, we didn’t spend a lot of time getting chummy with each other’s families.”
    “It’s not my grandmother.” She tore the photo out of his hand. “Get out.”
    “Hold on.” He tapped his knuckles on her cheek, an oldhabit that had tears burning the back of her throat. “What’s wrong?”
    “What’s wrong is I’d like to have some goddamn privacy.”
    “Babe, I know that face. You’re not pissed off at me, you’re upset. Tell me what’s wrong.”
    She wanted to. Wanted to pull the cork and let it all pour out. “It’s none of your business. I have a life without you. I don’t need you.”
    His eyes went cold, went hard. “You never did. I’ll get out of your way. I’ve had a hell of a lot of practice getting out of your way.”
    He walked to the door. He glanced at the cello case in the corner, the sandalwood candle burning on the dresser, the laptop on the bed and the open bag of DoubleStuf Oreos beside the phone.
    “Same old Callie,” he muttered.
    “Jake?” She stepped to the door, nearly touched him. Nearly gave in to the urge to put a hand on his arm and pull him back. “Thanks for the beer,” she said and closed the door, gently at least, in his face.

Four
    S he felt like a thief. It hardly mattered that she had a key to the front door, that she knew every sound and scent of the neighborhood, every corner and closet of the big brick house in Mount Holly.
    She