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  Marc considered that. “Is it possible he knew Sharon Greenberg is your biological mother?”

  “Anything is possible,” she said. “I didn’t tell him that. I only told him about Finn, but I really don’t know how much he knew or shared.”

  She pushed up from the chair with a long sigh, pacing away from him, away from the interrogation. “It’s really complicated and doesn’t have anything to do with why we’re here.”

  “I want to know.”

  At the demand, she turned to him. “I don’t want to tell you. I told him about Finn, that’s all. Sharon’s name wasn’t on any of that paperwork because it had been expunged. But I found someone who… unexpunged it for me.”

  “Could that person have told anyone your mother’s identity?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I suppose anyone who knows about Finn and really, really wants to figure out who had his child might eventually come up with her name. I know that’s possible, and that’s why I’m here, to tell her.” Not the only reason, but it was the initial prompt.

  “Why’d you look up your biological parents in the first place?” he asked. “The usual reasons?”

  There was nothing usual about it. “Yes, the usual reasons.” If wanting a baby was usual.

  She crossed the room and returned to the chair, feeling trapped. “I wanted to know my medical history.” That much was true. She wanted to know her medical history because that was the only way Joshua would agree to father a baby—and that was all she really wanted. Ever. Still.

  But some people really shouldn’t reproduce. And until she met Dr. Greenberg and found out what the woman was made of, then she wouldn’t indulge in that dream.

  “My adoption was completely closed, handled by a lawyer, and no medical records existed. My adopted parents insisted they had no idea who my biological parents were. They really wanted me to drop the whole thing, as the fact that I was adopted was a bit of a black eye to my mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Not being able to have a baby made her less than perfect. And if there is one thing Bitsy Hewitt values, it’s perfection.”

  “Then she should value you.”

  Devyn snorted softly. “I’m not a Hewitt, therefore I am not perfect. Not by a long stretch in my mother’s—my adoptive mother’s—eyes.”

  “So how did you unearth your birth mother’s identity?”

  It had taken two years and many thousands of dollars, but every minute and dime had been worth it. “The private investigator was eventually able to find the women who’d given birth at Brigham and Women’s Hospital on my birthday, then he tracked each one down, interviewed them, and finally narrowed it to this scientist at University of North Carolina, who was Sharon Mulvaney back when I was born. Apparently, she married briefly in the eighties, then divorced.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone about her? No one at all?”

  She had no one to tell. “I don’t have a lot of friends.” Boy, she must sound like a poor little rich girl. Could he possibly understand what it meant to carry around the weight of being a Hewitt? “My social circle is made up of people who are enamored of my maiden name or my connections.”

  “That must suck.”

  She smiled, appreciating the fact that he didn’t judge her. “It does.”

  “But you trusted your husband enough to give him the name of your biological father, a wanted fugitive, but not your mother’s identity?”

  “You really are an FBI agent,” she said, feeling the sting of embarrassment.

  “Was,” he corrected. “But I believe that getting all the facts out can help you solve a problem.”

  Marc didn’t need to know about her desire for a child. He knew enough. “I told him because he was my husband and I wanted to be honest,” she said, hoping it was enough of an explanation. “I had to explain to him how we could never really find out about my father’s medical files because he’s a fugitive. That was a year ago. Things between us were still on track. Kind of.”

  She shook her head, dropping the act and the rationalization. “I was grabbing at straws to avoid the shame of a divorce,” she admitted.

  “Divorce is more shameful than murder?”

  “Marc, first of all, I had no idea the information about my biological father would get him killed. And secondly, as far as the shame part, I assume you’ve done your homework and know exactly who and what my family is. A Hewitt protects the family name.”

  “And the big-ass money.”

  She choked on a dry laugh. “Yep, Boston Brahmin A-List.” She picked up the glass of Guinness and took a sip. “And you can believe that’s why Joshua Sterling—whose real last name was Silverman and who hailed not from Manhattan but from a two-room walk-up in the Bronx—married me.”

  “I’m sure he was attracted to far more than your last name.”

  An unexpected wisp of heat curled through her at the statement, at his deep voice and intense gaze. She didn’t reply.

  “So why’d you marry him?”

  “I was never really close to anyone until I met him. And he was handsome, kind, and adoring.” Until… he wasn’t. She stroked the beads of condensation on the smooth, thick glass. “And he offered something I’d never had before.”

  “Which was?”

  The potential for a family, the one she’d dreamed of. He’d promised they’d have children. He’d sworn her unknown biological history didn’t matter. And he’d lied. The day after they married, he started talking about his concerns about what he called “her unknown DNA map.”

  She finally looked up from the glass, fully aware her eyes were misted. “Stop. Now.”

  He just looked long and hard at her, then rolled over and pushed off the bed. “You’re right. Time to get to work.” He grabbed the laptop and opened it. “I’m expecting an e-mail from my company with some information that might help us.”

  His company, the Guardian Angelinos. On the way back to the hotel, he’d told her about the loosely formed organization run by his cousins, which was when she realized just how much she owed him.

  Would a scribbled phone number that she found on the back of a picture be enough to thank him? A pang of guilt hit again, but she squashed it. She needed his protection and his help. A phone number with the name “Finn” on it had to be enough.

  While he clicked a few keys, her gaze drifted from his head to his feet, lingering on the faded jeans over rock-solid thighs, narrow hips, and a muscled, masculine torso. His face was tilted down as he worked on the computer, reading intently, his dark hair a little tousled, his shave done so quickly he’d missed a few spots.

  Hours ago, she’d been kissing him on a hillside over the water. Then she’d gone from ready to kill him to trusting her life to him. Her whole being ached from swinging on an emotional pendulum.

  “What is it?” he asked, catching her scrutiny.

  “I just realized you know an awful lot about me, having just squeezed out some of my deepest and darkest secrets, and I know nothing about you except what you told me today. Obviously, you’re not an investment professional traveling on business and having some fun.”

  “I’m on business, and some people might consider this fun. But I’m not from New York,” he admitted. “I live in Marblehead, where I have a weapons store, and just recently made the decision to work for my cousins’ firm. I have no kids, I grew up in Sudbury, and I like to fish, cook a little, and am going to be thirty-nine next month. Feel better?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “Now, c’mere. You need to read something.” He gestured for her to join him and read the screen. “An e-mail from my cousin Vivi. She’s a former reporter for the Boston Bullet and a damn good investigator.” He angled the laptop so she could read the e-mail, skimming the words until she landed on her birth mother’s name.

  Dr. Sharon Greenberg happens to be one of the few microbiologists in the world who has the skill set necessary to grow and reformat botulism spores into a substance
that can be used in a bioterrorism attack.

  “I know she’s quite highly regarded in the area of immunology and neurotoxins. Possibly one of the best scientists in the world,” Devyn said.

  “Look at the e-mail Vivi forwarded.” He clicked to another message. The sender’s name was unfamiliar, but the address ended in fbi.gov.

  Current investigation open: Reported theft from University of North Carolina Chapel Hill Department of Pathology and Laboratory Medicine’s faculty lab… 19 grams of Clostridium botulinum bacterium, purified for growth of toxin… multiple lab employees have been interrogated. Notes from interviews available through investigation team… CIA has been alerted… currently monitoring Internet chatter among known terrorist cells…

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You think she’s involved with this?”

  “I don’t know. The spores have been stolen. This woman, with a confirmed expertise in this science, disappears in Northern Ireland, at one time a hotbed of terrorism, and she has connections to a man who, among his many crimes, is believed to have openly supported Irish terrorists in the 1970s. It might explain why the FBI wants you away from the potential problems.”

  Her heart, what was left of it after every word he said crushed it into bits, fell deep into her stomach with a thud.

  Was the other side of her “unknown DNA map” just as evil and criminal as her father?

  Oh, God, what did that make her?

  “We can’t ignore this,” he said.

  But how she wanted to. “I know. What do we do with that information?”

  “We’re looking for clues, trying to connect one dot with another.” He clicked through a few more pages as the sickening thoughts took hold.

  Both her parents were criminals?

  “Look at this.”

  The screen changed to a blotchy image of a partially handwritten form, a report scanned in at an angle, the seal of the FBI top and center.

  Her gaze landed on the date, December 22, 1978, and the city, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  Acting on a tip to find person of interest Finley MacCauley, investigators visited the apartment residence of Miss Sharon Mulvaney, MIT grad student, who cooperated with agents and allowed them into her residence w/o search warrant. No evidence of MacCauley.

  Her heart stuttered as she glanced back at the date, about nine months before her birthday.

  “Nothing shocking there.” Except absolute proof of what she wished weren’t true. “I’m living proof they knew each other. I have no doubt the authorities watched her if they suspected a relationship.”

  “Then this one.” He clicked to another page, a similar document. The handwriting was different, but the seal was the same. And the date was about three weeks later.

  Investigators interviewed seventeen students and faculty members related to the MIT laboratory reporting a theft of Clostridium botulinum bacterium, detaining six for further questioning.

  She didn’t have to read every one of the six names. They were meaningless to her, except for the fourth one on the list. Sharon Mulvaney.

  All were released without charges; investigation remains open.

  With an achy weight on her chest, she stood and walked to the suitcase she’d left by the door.

  “I have something to show you,” she said softly.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “More dots to connect.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Liam Baird braced himself against the ancient window frame of the third-floor parlor, his gaze drifting where it always did when he looked out over the Milltown Cemetery. The vast acreage of graves was lit only by the moon and ambient light from the Falls Road streetlamps.

  His mother’s grave, adorned with only a torn Irish tricolor flag and a modest Catholic cross with Celtic carvings, sat on a crest at the far western slopes of the famed burial ground. Milltown was closed for the night to the tourists who came to stroll past the heroes’ monuments and whisper famous names as though they’d been sainted. Every night, the cemetery was locked to stop the black-hearted Unionists who snuck over from Shankill to dribble paint and spit on the graves of men who were killed by their fathers. But there were many ways in and out of those ten thousand plots, even at night.

  Still, no one would bother to deface Colleen Baird’s burial site, tonight or any other night. No one braved the bramble bush and broken stones or wandered into the area of “lessers.” Visitors came to Milltown to stand in reverence at the graves of men who’d managed to become “political prisoners” instead of ordinary dissidents.

  Liam would never be ordinary. Not with the money he planned to make. Money could buy anything. Even…

  His gaze was drawn back to his mother’s grave. The first thing he’d do was build a monument to her.

  And if the shrewd and manipulative scientist from the States was as greedy as he hoped she was, she held the ticket to the vast sums of money he wanted.

  Not that he hadn’t done well, creating a business by riling up the young boys who burned to be like their fathers and uncles before them, dying for a Republican cause. He just hadn’t done well enough.

  His boys were willing to twist arms, take cash, move drugs, and sell women. They liked the dirtiness of it, these bricklayers and ironworkers, these plumbers and butchers and working-class Catholics who had no more excitement in their dreary lives since peace replaced passion in Northern Ireland. They needed an outlet, and Liam provided it, putting the work into a political framework to justify the deeds and pocketing the cash.

  But there was always a lot more cash to be pocketed.

  He looked down at his cell phone, which was still silent even though the appointed time for the conversation had come and gone. A satellite signal could be hard to obtain in Pakistan. Especially in a cave.

  As he looked at it, the phone vibrated, but the name on the caller ID wasn’t the one he expected.

  “Did you get her, Danny?” he asked without greeting.

  “It’s Magee. Danny’s been shot.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “He’ll live. But he’s got to see Doc Russell.”

  “Did he get the woman?”

  The brief hesitation was enough of an answer, and Liam bit back a dark curse.

  “He did get a warning in before some bloke fired on Danny,” Magee said. “And I’ve no doubt she’ll blow out after that.”

  Blowing out wasn’t enough. He wanted to know who had sent that goddamn woman who was asking too many questions. And he wanted to stop her before she alerted the wrong person that Dr. Greenberg was here.

  “Where’s the doc?” Liam asked. “You can’t take him to the hospital—they’ll file a police report.”

  “He’s meeting me upstairs at Four Points. You want to come?”

  “I might. I’m waiting for a call.” Disgust rolled through him. “The girl is a problem. If she’s been sent by the British fucks, we’ll give them a nice, clean message.”

  “Well, she was almost a nice clean message tonight. Danny had a knife on her.”

  “Did he cut her?”

  Behind him, he heard the pine board of the top step creak under the pressure of a foot. He turned to meet Dr. Greenberg’s slicing silver gaze.

  “No,” Magee answered. “But he scared the living shite out of her.”

  “Good. We want her scared.”

  “We want her gone,” the doctor corrected, crossing her arms. “What happened?”

  “Keep me posted, Magee.” He ended the call and pocketed the phone. “Danny didn’t get her into the car, but he scared her and managed to get himself shot.”

  “She shot him?”

  “No, she had backup, conveniently enough.” He peered hard at her. “Who is this young lady, Dr. Greenberg?”

  She just stared him down. “Did you arrange for the cash transfer?” she asked.

  Christ, she was one tough bitch. Except this bitch had a skill no man, woman, or scientist—at least not one who could be bought—had to
offer. So he had to put up with her. “Everything is taken care of. Have you been in the laboratory?”

  She nodded. “Everything’s growing as it should. There are no problems. For the time being, a few days at least, we have nothing to do but observe the process.”

  “I have plenty to do,” he countered. “Marie’ll have dinner ready in an hour. I’ll be out for the evening.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He felt his nostrils flare. “To a fucking pub, ma’am, and you would not be welcome there.”

  “Why?”

  “Sectarian place. Not real open to outsiders, so I’d rather not explain you to anyone. You stay here and eat whatever my housekeeper makes you.”

  “You won’t have to explain anything to anyone,” she said, a tight smile in place. “Tell Marie to save the trouble. I assume they serve food at the pub.”

  “If you wanna call it that. Four Points is better known for the stout.”

  “I like beer,” she said, canting her head toward the door.

  The vibrating from his pocket saved him. “I have to take this call.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I have to take this call privately,” he said. “That is, if you want that cash transfer to happen.”

  “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  When he heard her footsteps on the landing, he checked the ID and blew out a breath of relief.

  “Salam,” he said, knowing it was the only way to greet the Muslim on the other end.

  “How much longer, Baird?” Obviously, his client didn’t worry about etiquette. The accent was thick, the subtext clear. Time’s running out.

  “Not much longer,” he said. “But I will need more in the advance.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Look, this is a very expensive process, and some of it is out of our hands. I need a little more time and a little more money. At least a week.”

  “And then it will be done?”

  “If Allah has his way,” Liam said, despising that he had to use the wrong God’s name but knowing it would give him points.

  “Allah always has his way,” the man said simply. “And we have a timetable to follow for this project. Unfortunately for you, I have found another supplier.”