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the bedroom, grasping and gasping, feeling young and fresh, each excited by the other — it had been too long since they did more than just be physically satisfied. When they finished that night, they held each other until they fell asleep.

Chapter 7
    Wake Forest University's Z. Smith Reynolds Library — for Max, the place had become a refuge from the world. It's bright, open study areas balanced with the crowded stacks overstuffed with books. It was the greatest knowledge buffet, and Max loved it.
    He launched right into his investigation, confidence and hope blending with his sense of purpose. He started with a computer search of the name Howard Corkille. After receiving over two hundred thousand hits, he narrowed it by adding "North Carolina." This returned twenty-seven thousand. He checked out a few links — some lawyer in California writing about a deal with NCU, a baker in Florida born in North Carolina, and a bar mitzvah blog. Adding "Winston-Salem" brought the number down to one hundred twenty-seven.
    "That's better," he said, garnering a scowl from a young gal working at a desk surrounded by books and papers.
    Following several links to start and using that information for deeper research, Max learned much about the Corkille family over the course of that morning. Edwin Corkille, born and raised in Ireland, fled the country after being accused of murdering a woman he had been promised to for marriage. He insisted on his innocence but could see that nobody wanted to believe him. So he ran.
    His family was wealthy, and when he arrived in New York, he used some of his funds to purchase land in North Carolina. "Then things turn murky," Max said as he wrote down the information. Something had occurred within a decade because the next references to Edwin Corkille involved an involuntary dissolution of property. Several banks fought over what few assets he had left. In the end, he was broke.
    The American Corkilles had no contact with their Irish family, and as a result, found no help to regain their standing. They became a working class family, struggling to survive, finding life in the military during the Civil War (and finding death as well). Yet no mention of new fortunes could be found.
    Max re-read what he had found detailing the last few decades. The Corkille name was little known except for acreage sales from the property Melinda now lived in and a few mentions of Melinda's involvement with the Second Harvest Food Bank — a charity providing food for the impoverished. Of course, if all the Corkille's money came from selling art forgeries, that type of success would not be found written about in old newspaper articles.
    Yet something bothered Max. Something didn't feel right about the sudden re-emergence of Corkille wealth. Art forgery might be lucrative, but the kind of money the Corkille estate appeared to be worth could not have been made that fast. "At least, I don't think it can," he said provoking a hiss from the student looking no closer to finishing her paper.
    Max wanted to find a specific reference to Howard Corkille but nothing online provided help. With pleasure, he culled a list of books on art forgery and began searching the stacks. While the computer made life easier, it had also taken away many small joys. The tactile experience of researching book after book in the quiet intensity of a library was just one, but it was one that touched Max every day.
    Another joy of library research — discovering new parts of the immense building. Max found the books on art forgery (both history and, amazingly, how-to) in a lovely wood-paneled room with large reading chairs and a warm atmosphere. He settled down with his finds and delved in like a giddy child.
    "You won't find him there," a distinct voice said.
    Max didn't need to look up to know who stood before him — Mr. Modesto, the Hull family representative.
    "May I sit?" Modesto asked.
    With a huff, Max closed his book and gestured to the empty chair