Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

Here Hardee shifted in his chair. “Perhaps I should just read it.” He flipped ahead six pages and cleared his throat.

“That parcel of land on the north shore comprising approximately forty acres, inclusive of the access road, as well as the structure known as Rose Hill Cottage, I bequeath to…” Here Hardee paused.

“What about Rose Hill?” pressed Evelyn.

Hardee took a deep breath. “I bequeath to my dear friend and companion, Miranda Wood.”

“Like hell,” said Noah.

On the street outside Hardee’s office, Noah and Evelyn sat side by side in the car. Neither one spoke. Neither was comfortable with the silence. The others had chosen to walk home, much to Noah’s relief. He needed this time alone with Evelyn.

Noah said softly, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Evelyn?”

“What do you mean, Daddy?”

“Anything at all. About Richard.”

She looked at her father. “Am I supposed to say something?”

“You can tell me, you know. We’re family, that’s what matters. And family stick together. Against the whole world, if they have to.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Noah looked into his daughter’s eyes. They were the same shade of green as his wife’s eyes had been. Here was the one link he had left to his darling Susannah. Here was the one person in the world he still cared about. She returned his gaze calmly, without even the tiniest flicker of uneasiness. Good. Good. She could hold her own against anyone. In that way, she truly was a DeBolt.

He said, “I’d do anything for you, Evelyn. Anything. All you have to do is ask.”

She looked straight ahead. “Then take me home, Daddy.”

He started the engine and turned the car toward Chestnut Street. She didn’t say a word during the entire drive. She was a proud girl, his daughter. Though she’d never ask for it, she needed his help. And she’d get it.

Whatever it takes, he thought. It’ll be done.

After all, Evelyn was his flesh and blood, and he couldn’t let flesh and blood go to prison.

Even if she was guilty.

Her garden had always been her sanctuary. Here Miranda had planted hollyhocks and delphiniums, baby’s breath and columbine. She hadn’t bothered with color schemes or landscape drawings. She’d simply sunk plants into the earth, scattered seeds and let the jungle of vines and flowers take over her backyard. They’d been neglected this past week, poor things. A few days of no watering had left the blooms bedraggled. But now she was home and her babies looked happier. Strangely enough, she was happy, as well. Her back was warmed by the sun, her hands were working the rich loam. This was all she needed. Fresh air and freedom. How long will I have it?

She put that thought firmly aside and swung the pickax into the hardened earth. She’d turn a little more soil, expand the perennial bed another two feet. She leaned the pickax against the house and knelt to loosen up the clods, sift out the stones.

The sun was making her drowsy.

At last, unable to resist the promise of a nap, she stretched out on the lawn. There she lay, her hands and knees caked with soil, the grass cushioning her bare legs. A perfect summer day, just like the days she remembered from her childhood. She closed her eyes and thought about all those afternoons when her mother was still alive, when her father would stand at the barbecue, singing as he grilled hamburgers….

“What a sharp game you play,” said a voice.

Miranda sat up with a start and saw Chase standing at her white picket fence. He shoved open the gate and came into the yard. As he approached, it occurred to her how filthy she must look in her gardening shorts and T-shirt. Framed against the glare of sun and blue sky, Chase looked immaculate, untouchable. She squinted to see his expression, but all she could make out was a dark oval, the flutter of his windblown hair.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he said.

She rose to her feet and clapped the dirt from her hands. “Knew what?”

“How did you manage it, Miranda? A few sweet whispers? Write me into the will and I’ll be yours forever?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I just came from our family attorney. We found a nasty surprise waiting for us. Two weeks ago Richard made out a new will. He left Rose Hill Cottage to you.”

Her immediate reaction was stunned silence. In disbelief she stared at him.

“Nothing to say? No denials?”

“I never expected—”

“I think it’s exactly what you expected.”

“No!” She turned away, confused. “I never wanted a thing—”

“Oh, come on!” He reached for her arm and pulled her around to face him. “What was it, blackmail? A way to keep you quiet about the affair?”

“I don’t know anything about a will! Or the cottage! Besides, how could he leave it to me? Doesn’t it go to his wife? Evelyn owns half—”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Rose Hill came through my mother’s family. An inheritance that went directly to Richard, so Evelyn had no claim on it. It was Richard’s to pass on any way he chose. And he chose to give it to you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know why.”

“That cottage was the one place on this island he really cared about. The one place we both cared about.”

“All right, then!” she cried. “ You take it! It’s yours. I’ll sign a statement today, handing it over. I don’t want it. All I want is to be left alone. ” She stared straight up at his coldly immobile face. “And to never, ever see another Tremain for as long as I live.”

She broke away and ran up the back porch steps, into the house. The screen door slammed shut behind her. She headed straight into the kitchen, where she suddenly halted. There was nowhere else to run. In agitation she went to the sink and turned on the faucet. There, surrounded by her beloved ferns, she scrubbed furiously at the dirt caked on her hands.

She was still scrubbing when the screen door opened, then softly swung shut again. For a long time he didn’t say a word. She knew he was standing behind her, watching her.

“Miranda,” he said.

Angrily she turned off the faucet. “Go away.”

“I want to hear your side of it.”

“Why? You wouldn’t believe me. You don’t want to believe me. But you know what? I don’t care anymore.” She grabbed a dish towel and blotted her hands. “I’ll go to the lawyer’s this afternoon. Sign a statement of refusal, or whatever it’s called. I would never accept it. Anything I received from him would be tainted. Just like I’m tainted.”

“You’re wrong, Miranda. I do want to believe you.”

She stood very still, afraid to turn, to look at him. She sensed his approach as he moved toward her across the kitchen. And still she couldn’t turn, couldn’t face him. She could only stare down at the clumps of wet garden dirt in the sink.

“But you can’t, can you?” she said.

“The facts argue against it.”

“And if I tell you the facts are misleading?” Slowly she turned and found he was right there, so close she could reach up and touch his face. “What then?”

“Then I’d be forced to trust my instincts. But in this particular case, my instincts are shot all to hell.”

She stared at him, suddenly confused by the signals he was sending. By the signals her body was sending. He had her closed off from all retreat, her back pinned against the kitchen sink. She had to tilt her head up just to meet his gaze, and the view she had of him, towering above her, was more than a little frightening. Yet it wasn’t fear that seemed to be pumping through her veins. It was the warm and unexpected pulse of desire.