Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

She turned to look at him. “I was already free of him. Halfway back to happiness. Why should I kill Richard?”

“Why was he in your house?”

“He insisted on meeting me. I didn’t want to see him. So I left and went for a walk. When I came back, I found him.”

“Yes, I’ve heard your version. At least your story’s consistent.”

“It’s also the truth.”

“Truth, fiction.” He shrugged. “In your case it all blends together, doesn’t it?” Abruptly he turned and headed up the cemetery drive.

“What if it’s all truth?” she called after him.

“Stay away from the family, Ms. Wood!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Or I’ll have to call in Lorne Tibbetts.”

“Just for a moment, consider the possibility that I didn’t kill him! That someone else did!”

He was still walking away.

“Maybe it’s someone you know!” she shouted. “Think about it! Or do you already know and you want me to take the blame? Tell me, Mr. Tremain! Who really killed your brother?”

That brought Chase to a sudden halt. He knew he should keep walking. He knew it was a mistake to engage the woman in any more of this insane dialogue. It was insane. Or she was insane. Yet he couldn’t break away, not yet. What she’d just said had opened up too many frightening possibilities.

Slowly he turned to face her. She stood absolutely still, her gaze fixed on him. The afternoon sun washed her head with a coppery glow. All that beautiful hair seemed to overwhelm her face. She looked surprisingly fragile in that black dress, as though a strong gust might blow her away.

Was it possible? he wondered. Could this woman really have picked up a knife? Raised the blade over Richard’s body? Plunged it down with so much rage, so much strength, that the tip had pierced straight through to his spine?

Slowly he moved toward her. “If you didn’t kill him,” he said, “who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a pretty disappointing answer.”

“He had enemies—”

“Angry enough to kill him?”

“He ran a newspaper. He knew things about certain people in this town. And he wasn’t afraid to print the truth.”

“Which people? What sort of scandal are we talking about?”

He saw her hesitate, wondered if she was dredging up some new lie.

“Richard was writing an article,” she said. “About a local developer named Tony Graffam. He runs a company called Stone Coast Trust. Richard said he had proof of fraud—”

“My brother had paid reporters on his staff. Why would he bother to do his own writing?”

“It was a personal crusade of his. He was set on ruining Stone Coast. He needed just one last piece of evidence. Then he was going to print.”

“And did he?”

“No. The article was supposed to appear two weeks ago. It never did.”

“Who stopped it?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to talk to Jill Vickery.”

“The managing editor?”

Miranda nodded. “She knew the article was in the works and she wasn’t crazy about the idea. Richard was the driving force behind the story. He was even willing to risk a libel suit. In fact, Tony Graffam has already threatened to sue.”

“So we have one convenient suspect. Tony Graffam. Anyone else?”

She hesitated. “Richard wasn’t a popular man.”

“Richard?” He shook his head. “I doubt that. I was the brother with the popularity problem.”

“Two months ago he cut salaries at the Herald. Laid off a third of the staff.”

“Ah. So we have more suspects.”

“He hurt people. Families—”

“Including his own.”

“You don’t know how hard it is these days! How desperate people are for work. Oh, he talked a good story. About how sorry he was to be laying people off. How it hurt him just as much as it hurt everyone else. It was garbage. I heard him talking about it later, to his accountant. He said, ‘I cut the deadwood, just as you advised.’ Deadwood. Those employees had been with the Herald for years. Richard had the money. He could have carried the loss.”

“He was a businessman.”

“Right. That’s exactly what he was.” Her hair, tossed by the wind, was like flames dancing. She was a wild and blazing fire, full of anger at him, at Richard, at the Tremains.

“So we’ve added to the pool of suspects,” he said. “All those poor souls who lost their jobs. And their families. Why don’t we toss in Richard’s children? His father-in-law? His wife?”

“Yes! Why not Evelyn?”

Chase snorted in disgust. “You’re very good, you know that? All that smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t convinced me. I hope the jury is just as smart. I hope to hell they see through you and make you pay.”

She looked at him mutely, all the fire, all the spirit suddenly drained from her body.

“I’ve already paid,” she whispered. “I’ll pay for the rest of my life. Because I’m guilty. Not of killing him. I didn’t kill him.” She swallowed and looked away. He could no longer see her face, but he could hear the anguish in her voice. “I’m guilty of being stupid. And naive. Guilty of having faith in the wrong man. I really thought I loved your brother. But that was before I knew him. And then, when I did know him, I tried to walk away. I wanted to do it while we were still…friends.”

He saw her hand come up and stroke quickly across her face. It suddenly struck him how very brave she was. Not brazen, as he’d first thought upon seeing her today, but truly, heartbreakingly courageous.

She raised her head again, her gaze drawing level to his. The tears she’d tried to wipe away were still glistening on her lashes. He had a sudden, crazy yearning to touch her face, to wipe away the wetness of those tears. And with that yearning came another, just as insane, a man’s hunger to know the taste of her lips, the softness of her hair. At once he took a step back, as though retreating from some dangerous flame. He thought, I can see why you fell for her, Richard. Under different circumstances I might have fallen for her myself.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered in disgust. “What does it matter now, what I felt? To you or to anyone else?” Without looking back she left him and started up the driveway. Her abrupt departure seemed to leave behind an unfillable vacuum.

“Ms. Wood!” he yelled. She kept walking. He called out, “Miranda!” She stopped. “I have one question for you,” he said. “Who bailed you out?”

Slowly she turned and looked at him. “You tell me,” she said.

And then she walked away.

It was a long walk to the newspaper building. It took Miranda past familiar streets and storefronts, past people she knew. That was the worst part. She felt them staring at her through the shop windows. She saw them huddle in groups and whisper to each other. No one came right out and said anything to her face. They didn’t have to. All I lack, she thought, is a scarlet letter sewn on my chest. M for murderess.

She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and walked up Limerock Street. The Herald building stood before her, a brick-and-slate haven against all those watching eyes. She ducked through the double glass doors, into the newsroom.

Inside, all activity came to a dead halt.

She felt assaulted by all those startled looks.

“Hello, Miranda,” said a cool voice.

Miranda turned. Jill Vickery, the managing editor, glided out of the executive office. She hadn’t changed clothes since the funeral. On dark-haired, ivory-skinned Jill, the color black looked quite elegant. Her short skirt hissed against her stockings as she clipped across the floor.