Dying for Love by Rita Herron

He could have taken her baby and started another damn project in another city. Or another state.

    Amelia wanted to tell John the rest, that she’d seen him in her dreams. But he obviously knew of her mental problems, and she didn’t want him to run like most men did from her.
    She needed his help.
    “I have to ask you something,” he said. “What if you gave the baby up yourself, Amelia? You were young, troubled. Confused. Maybe you thought it would be best for the child to go to a loving two-parent home.”
    His words mimicked the deep fear in her heart. But she didn’t believe it. That child would have given her a reason to fight.
    “Because I remember begging the doctor to let me hold him,” she said. “But they took him away, then drugged me again.”
    John folded his arms. “So what will you do if you find this little boy alive? What if he’s happy in a loving home? Will you uproot him from the only life he’s known?”
    Uncertainty engulfed her. “I don’t know,” she said. “You obviously think he’s better off without me.”
    “That’s not what I said,” John replied. “I’m just cautioning you to think about the little boy.”
    “Just exhume that grave so I’ll know the truth,” Amelia said. “You have the power to do that, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” John said with a frown. “After all, if this matter is related to Arthur Blackwood in any way, a judge will readily agree.”
    True. The man had faked deaths before. And he’d kept secrets regarding highly classified government projects.
    Secrets he’d taken with him to his grave.
    “You said he’s allegedly buried beside where Blackwood’s daughter was supposed to be?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ll make the phone call now,” John said.
    Amelia extended her hand, and when he clasped it, a warm tingle spread through her. An awareness that sparked familiarity inside her.
    And the feeling they’d been lovers.
    But that was ridiculous. Unless . . . Viola had met him somewhere.
    But John didn’t seem to know her.
    It didn’t matter. He was the best at what he did, at tracking down missing children.
    And that was all she needed from him.

    It took John twenty-four hours to set up the exhumation. Against his advice, Amelia insisted on being present, so they met in the cemetery at noon. The snowstorm had temporarily eased, but the ground was still four inches deep in snow and ice.
    And the temperature was dropping. Hell, he could see his breath puffing out in front of him.
    Ice crackled below his boots as he made his way to the gravesite. If they found the remains of an infant in the grave, it would be difficult for her. But hopefully she could accept the loss and move on.
    If not . . .
    He’d investigated enough cases to know that kidnappings and illegal adoptions occurred. If the child had survived and Arthur Blackwood had given him to someone else, the child could be anywhere.
    That family would be attached and vice versa.
    Ripping apart a family was always painful.
    The crew had already arrived and set up privacy tarps. A heavy fog fell over the graveyard, adding a dismal feel as John approached. Amelia had beat him there and stood by the small grave, her face pale in the gray light, her body shivering inside her long black coat.
    She looked so fragile that for a moment he was tempted to pull her up against him and comfort her.
    But he had a strict policy against getting personally involved with anyone. Getting involved meant opening yourself up. And how could he do that when he had no idea who he’d been before? When he sensed he’d blocked out his past because there were things he didn’t want to remember? Things he was ashamed of.
    Besides, something from his past might come back to haunt him any day.
    There were times he had flashes of incidents . . . incidents that made him question if he’d been a criminal himself.
    Other times he had the horrible sense he’d hurt someone, that he’d done something wrong that he couldn’t