Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

She slid away and paced across the kitchen, as far as she could get from him and still be in the same room. “I meant what I said. About refusing all rights to Rose Hill Cottage. In fact, I think we should do it right now. Go to the lawyer.”

“Is that really what you want?”

“I know I don’t want anything of his. Anything to remind me of him.”

“You’d give up the cottage, just like that?”

“It doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’ve never even seen the place.”

Chase looked surprised. “He never took you to Rose Hill?”

“No. Oh, he told me about it. But it was his own private retreat. Not the sort of place he’d share with me.”

“You could be handing back a fortune in real estate, sight unseen.”

“It’s not my fortune. It never was.”

He regarded her with narrowed eyes. “I can’t figure you out. Every time I think I have, you throw me a curve ball.”

“I’m not all that complicated.”

“You managed to intrigue Richard.”

“I was hardly the first woman to do that.”

“But you’re the first one who ever left him.”

“And look where it got me.” She gave a bitter laugh.

“You may not believe this, but I used to think of myself as a person with high morals. I paid my taxes. Stopped at every red light. Followed all the rules.” She turned and stared out the window. Softly she said, “Then I fell for your brother. Suddenly I didn’t know what the rules were anymore. I was slipping around in strange territory. God, it scared me. At the same time I felt…exhilarated. And that scared me even more.” She turned to him. “I’d give anything to turn back the clock. To feel…innocent again.”

Slowly he came toward her. “Some things we can’t recapture, Miranda.”

“No.” She stared down, her cheeks flushed with guilt. “Some things we lose forever.”

His touch, so unexpected, made her flinch. It was the gentlest of strokes, just his hand tracing the curve of her cheek. Startled, she looked up to find a gaze so searching it left her nowhere to hide. She hated feeling so nakedly exposed but she found she could not break away. The hand cupping her face was warm and so very compelling.

Here I am, falling into the same old trap, she thought. With Richard I lost my innocence. What will I lose to this man? My soul?

She said, “I learned my lesson from your brother, Chase. I’m no longer fair game.” She turned and walked away, into the living room.

“I’m not Richard.”

She looked back. “It doesn’t matter who you are. What matters is that I’m not the same dumb, trusting soul I used to be.”

“He really hurt you, didn’t he?” He was watching her from the kitchen threshold. His shoulders seemed to fill the doorway.

She didn’t answer. She sank into an armchair and stared at her dirt-stained knees.

Chase studied her from across the room. All his anger toward her, which had built up since that morning in Les Hardee’s office, suddenly evaporated. In its place was a fury toward Richard. Golden boy Richard, who had always gotten what he wanted. Richard the firstborn, the one with the classic Tremain fair hair and blue eyes, had bought everything he ever coveted with the coin of wit and charm. But once he’d attained his goal, he’d lose interest.

That was his pattern with women. Once, Richard had wanted Evelyn DeBolt, and he’d won her. He’d had to marry her, of course. You didn’t play games with the only child of Noah DeBolt. But after the prize was his he’d grown bored with his wife. That was Richard, always coveting, never satisfied.

And here was the one woman, the one prize, he hadn’t been able to keep. Such an unassuming female, thought Chase, feeling a strange ache in his throat. Was it pity or sympathy? He couldn’t tell the difference.

He sat in the chair across from her. “You…seem to have recovered from last night.”

“Just some sore muscles. That’s all.” She shrugged, as though she knew he couldn’t possibly be interested. Whatever turmoil was swirling in her head, she kept it carefully concealed. “I sent Annie home this morning. I couldn’t see the point of her staying.”

“Safety’s sake?”

“Safety from what?”

“What if it wasn’t an accident?”

She looked up. “At the moment I’m not terrifically popular in this town. But I can’t see one of our upstanding citizens turning hit-and-run driver.”

“Still, one of our upstanding citizens did steal Mr. Lanzo’s car.”

“Poor Eddie.” She shook her head. “It’ll just reinforce his paranoia. Now he’ll add car thieves to that list of crazies he imagines cruising the street.”

“Yes, he mentioned that last night. Something about Peeping Toms.”

She smiled. “Eddie grew up in Chicago. He never did shake those big-city jitters. He swears he spotted some mob car watching my…” She suddenly paused, frowning. “You know, I never paid much attention to his stories. But now that I think about it…”

“When did he tell you about that car?”

“Maybe a month or two ago.”

“Before Richard’s murder, then.”

“Yes. So it’s probably not related.” She sighed. “It’s just poor, crazy Eddie.” She stood. “I’ll change clothes. I can’t go to the lawyer looking like this.”

“You really want to go right now?”

“I have to. Until I do, I won’t feel clean. Or free of him.”

“I’ll call ahead, then.” He glanced at his watch. “We can just make the ferry to Bass Harbor.”

“Bass Harbor? I thought Les Hardee was Richard’s lawyer.”

“He is. But this last will was drawn up by some lawyer named Vernon FitzHugh. Do you know him?”

“No, thank God.” She turned and headed up the hall.

“Or you’d probably accuse Mr. FitzHugh and me of fraud.” She vanished into the bedroom.

Chase watched the door swing shut behind her. “As a matter of fact,” he muttered, “the thought did cross my mind.”

Vernon FitzHugh was expecting them. What he didn’t anticipate was the purpose of their visit.

“Have you really thought this through, Ms. Wood? This is prime real estate we’re talking about. The north shore has just been rezoned for development. I expect your piece of property, in a few years, will be worth well over—”

“It should never have come to me,” said Miranda. “It belongs to the Tremain family.”

FitzHugh glanced uneasily at Chase, one of those sidelong looks that reveal so much. “Perhaps we should discuss this in private, Ms. Wood. If Mr. Tremain would care to wait outside…”

“No, I want him to stay. I want him to hear every word.” She looked meaningfully at FitzHugh. “So he can’t accuse us of collusion.”

“Collusion?” FitzHugh, alarmed, sat up straight. “Mr. Tremain, you don’t think I wanted to get involved in this, do you? It’s a messy situation. Two lawyers, two wills. And then, the complicating circumstances of the client’s death.” He assiduously avoided looking at Miranda. “I’m just trying to carry out Mr. Tremain’s instructions. Which are to ensure that Rose Hill Cottage goes to Ms. Wood.”

“I don’t want it,” said Miranda. “I want to give it back.”

FitzHugh looked troubled. He removed his glasses and set them on the desk. It seemed, with that one gesture, he simultaneously shed the role of the detached professional. Now he was speaking to her as a friend, an adviser. The flat accent of a working-class Mainer slipped into his voice. This man knew only too well what it was like to be poor. And here was this stubborn young woman, throwing away the promise of security.

“Richard Tremain,” he began, “came to me with a request. I’m bound to honor it. It’s not my job to decide whether you’re innocent or guilty. I just want to see that the intent of the will is carried out. I made very sure that this was what he wanted, and he wanted that land to go to you. If you’re convicted, then the point will be moot — you can’t inherit. But let’s say you’re found innocent. Then Rose Hill goes to you, no question about it. Wait a few days, Ms. Wood. If this is really what you want, come back and I’ll draw up the papers. But I won’t do it today. I have to think of Mr. Tremain’s last request. After all, he was my client.”