Birthright

Cullen’s estate.
    It was a good plan, Callie told herself. And now it was time to put it away for the night.
    She closed her eyes, opened herself to the music as she drew out Bach. The lovely, complicated and romantic notes from his Suite Number 1 in G for Unaccompanied Cello.
    Her mind could rest with the music. Flow with it. Quiet.Here was comfort, the mathematics and the art, blended together into beauty.
    For these precious moments, she had and would drag the cumbersome instrument on every plane, truck, train, to every dig no matter how problematic.
    Soothed, she set the bow aside. Following routine, she stroked her nightly moisturizer over her face and throat, blew out her candle.
    She climbed into bed.
    Five minutes after she turned off the light, she was turning it back on, getting out of bed and picking up the box Suzanne had given her.
    So she had a curious nature, she told herself. That’s why she was good at her work. That’s why she would find the answers to this puzzle and put everything back on an even keel once more.
    She opened the box, saw the letters, all in plain white envelopes, all neatly lined up according to date.
    So Suzanne was another organized soul, she noticed. Another creature of habit. A number of people were.
    She’d just read through them. They would give her a better sense of the woman, and very possibly another piece of the puzzle. Just more data, she told herself as she took the first envelope out of the box.
    She felt the same sort of anticipation of discovery when she opened the envelope marked “Jessica” as she did when brushing the soil off an artifact.
    My darling Jessica,
    Today you’re one year old. It doesn’t seem possible that a whole year has passed since I first held you. This entire year is still like a dream to me. All disjointed and blurry and unreal. There are times when I think it really has been a dream. Times when I hear you crying and start toward your room. Other times when I swear I feel you moving inside me, as though you haven’t been born yet.
    But then I remember, and I don’t think I can stand it.
    My own mother made me promise I would write this note. I don’t know what I would have done without my mother these past months. I wonder if anyone really understands what I’m going through but another mother. Your daddy tries, and I know he misses you, so much, but I don’t think he can feel this same emptiness.
    I’m hollow inside. So hollow there are times I think I’ll just crumble away to nothing.
    Part of me wishes I could, but I have your brother. Poor, sweet little boy. He’s so confused. He doesn’t understand why you’re not here.
    How can I explain it to him, when I don’t understand it either?
    I know you’ll come back soon. Jessie, you have to know we’ll never, never stop looking. I pray, every day, that you’ll be home in your own crib one night. Until you are, I pray, every day, that you’re safe and well. That you’re not frightened. I pray, every day, that whoever took you from me is kind to you, and loving. That she rocks you the way you like, and sings you your favorite lullabies.
    One day she’ll realize what she did was wrong, and she’ll bring you home.
    I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I turned away from you. I promise you it was only for a moment. If I could go back, I’d hold you so close. No one could ever tear you away.
    We’re all looking, Jessie. All of us. Mama and Daddy, Grandpa and Grandma, Nanny and Pop. All the neighbors, and the police. Don’t ever think we let you go. Because we never did. We never will.
    You’re right here in my heart. My baby, my Jessie.
    I love you. I miss you.
    Mama
    Callie folded the pages neatly, slipped them back in the envelope. She put the lid back on the box, set the box on the floor. Leaning over, she switched off the light.
    And lay in the dark, aching for a woman she barely knew.
    S he spent most of the next day on the painstaking task of uncovering the skeletal remains. It took hours, working with brushes, with dental probes, with tongue depressors to clear the dirt. But the latest find had pried two graduate students out of the university.
    She had her photographer in Dory Teasdale, a long, leggy brunette. And her finds assistant in Bill McDowell, who didn’t look old enough to buy beer but had five seasons on three digs under his belt.
    She found Dory competent and enthusiastic, and tried to ignore the fact she was the same physical type as one Veronica Weeks.