Claiming His Family. Ann Peterson Voss

all I have. If you have a better idea, spit it out.”

      Alyson bit her bottom lip and stared out the windshield as Dex pulled the car up to the outer gate of the prison. Rolls of razor wire glinted in the sun. Sharp and brutal and unforgiving.

      She shivered. Just the thought of venturing inside the gates with the kind of men she did her part to put behind bars every day—men like Andrew Smythe—made her skin crawl. But if it meant finding a name on those visitor logs or phone records that would lead them to Patrick, she would walk a gauntlet through the cell blocks alone.

      She glanced at Dex. Jaw set and eyes narrowed, he looked ready to fight the world. Despite his anger toward her, despite his judgment of her, despite all that had happened between them, he was with her now. And he would fight with her to find their son.

      For the first time in over a year, she didn’t have to fight alone.

      DEX LEANED against the stainless-steel counter in the prison vestibule and paged through the visitor’s log, scanning for Smythe’s name in the Inmate Visited column. Alyson stood beside him, close enough to read the names scrawled on the battered pages. Too close. Her body heat made the already warm day that much warmer. Her sweet scent teased his senses. And when she moved her head, wisps of auburn hair trailed across his arm.

      Having her sleep under his roof last night had been pure torture. Even though the master bedroom was on the main floor of his house and the guest bedroom was upstairs, she’d been far too close to afford him any semblance of a night’s sleep. And even when he did manage to shut his eyes, dreams of the son he’d never seen haunted him.

      He forced his attention to the names in the sign-in book. He had to concentrate. He had to find a lead, any lead, that would take him to Patrick. They’d found nothing of note in the prison’s telephone logs. Only an occasional call to Smythe’s lawyer. He prayed these pages would reveal something. Because they had nothing but Smythe’s word that Patrick would be safe. And Dex knew just how little Andrew Clarke Smythe’s word was worth.

      Alyson grasped Dex’s hand before he could turn the next page, her fingers clamping around his. “There.” She pointed to Smythe’s name on the form. Tracing her finger along the page, she landed on the name of the visitor. She exhaled. “Oh. Lee Runyon again.”

      Dex nodded, noting several more entries for Runyon on the following pages. “He must have been working on an appeal.” As Smythe’s attorney, Runyon had flooded the appellate court with a constant stream of paperwork on Smythe’s behalf. All the appeals money could buy. It was no wonder he had to telephone and visit his client often.

      “That doesn’t mean Runyon isn’t helping Smythe in other ways. Making contacts for him. Helping with arrangements,” Alyson said.

      Dex had never liked Runyon much. No district attorney did. He won far too many cases he should lose. He had a way of charming the jury and creating a smoke screen around his client that blurred the truth. And he had an overactive ego. But that didn’t mean he was a criminal. Or that he would cross that line, even for a client with as much money as Smythe. “I suppose it’s possible.”

      “But not probable?”

      “No. Not unless he has a damn good reason for risking everything he’s built.”

      Alyson nodded, but the narrowed look of suspicion in her eyes didn’t let up.

      Dex skimmed over the remaining entries in the visitor’s log. He flipped page after page until there were no more pages to flip. Besides Runyon, no other name showed up as a visitor for Smythe.

      “Wait.” Alyson grabbed his hand again. “There’s a page missing from the book.”

      Dex paged back. Sure enough. The page numbers skipped from twenty to twenty-two. He raised his eyes to the corrections officer behind the bulletproof glass. “There’s a page missing from this visitor’s log. Do you know anything about this?”

      The stocky woman shook her head. “No, sir. But I’ll check for it back here.” She disappeared into the office where the visitor logs were archived.

      “Wait a second. Maybe we can…” Alyson leaned over the book, straining for a closer look. A wisp of silky hair trailed across Dex’s hand. Her breast pressed against his arm. Heat stirred inside him. Heat he didn’t want to feel. He stepped back, allowing her free access to the log.

      She examined the page, her freckled nose mere inches from the paper. Suddenly she shot up from the book and turned to him, her face animated, her eyes glowing like green embers. “There’s an impression of the writing from the missing page on this page. Look.” She moved to the side, allowing Dex to examine the paper.

      Sure enough, inkless lines had been etched into the page by the force of the pen writing on the now missing page. Adrenaline spiked his blood. He opened his briefcase, located a pencil and tore a blank piece of paper from a legal pad. Placing the paper over the log page, he traced across it lightly with the pencil until the etched impressions came into focus.

      Although the lines jumbled with other writing in the log, he could make out the name “Smythe” in the middle of the page. He kept tracing. Another name took form in the visitor column of the log. His jaw clenched.

      “What?” Alyson looked from his face to the book. “What do you see?” She leaned close.

      Dex gritted his teeth. “There might be a logical explanation. There had better be a logical explanation.”

      Alyson turned wide eyes on him once more. “For what? I can’t make it out. Whose name do you see?”

      Dex traced the name with his finger. “John Cohen.”

      Alyson’s eyes widened.

      Of course she would know the man. John Cohen had worked in the district attorney’s office longer than Dex had. Nearly as long as her father, Neil Fitzroy. And John and Fitz had shared political affiliations.

      Alyson swallowed hard and shifted her feet, soles scraping against waxed tile. “Why would John Cohen visit Smythe?”

      Dex shoved memories of Neil Fitzroy’s scheme to sell justice to the back of his mind. For now. Maybe John had a good reason for visiting Smythe. Maybe there was also a good reason for the page with his signature on it to go missing. Maybe. But the ache in Dex’s shoulders said something different. “That’s what I’m damn well going to find out.”

      Chapter Four

      Alyson walked through the door Dex held open and into the jumble of aromas and laughter in the Schettler Brew Pub. Her stomach knotted with tension. She clutched her hands together in front of her to keep them from trembling.

      She scanned the crowd of faces. A pair of dark eyes met hers. Eyes that belonged to the receptionist at the district attorney’s office. Maggie Daugherty had joined the district attorney’s office only a year before Alyson’s father died, but she had always been so open and friendly, Alyson used to think of her as a sister. Or at least a friend. But judging by the way Maggie narrowed her eyes at the sight of Alyson and Dex together, Alyson’s fears about venturing into the brew pub were more than justified. No doubt other D.A.’s office employees would lose their smiles when they spotted her. The pariah. Neil Fitzroy’s daughter.

      She shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have come to the spot Dex said had become the afterwork hangout for A.D.A.s—assistant district attorneys. She should have done as Dex wanted and let him handle questioning John Cohen.

      No.

      She raised her chin and stepped forward into the pub. She would face whatever scorn she had to, to find Patrick. Even the contempt of the whole damn town. And if John Cohen was carrying on her father’s legacy, if he had helped Smythe in exchange for money, she would face that, too.

      Dex leading the way, she marched across the hardwood floor and wound through tables and patrons until they reached a vacant spot at the bar. Jovial laughter and conversation jangled in