Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

“Why did he come to you?” Chase asked. “Mr. Hardee has been Richard’s attorney for years.”

FitzHugh studied Chase for a moment, weighing the man’s motives. Coercion was what he suspected, the wealthy Tremain family putting pressure on this woman, this outsider, to surrender her inheritance. It wasn’t right. Someone had to take the woman’s side, even if she refused to stand up for herself.

“Richard Tremain came to me,” FitzHugh said, “because he didn’t want Les Hardee involved.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Hardee is also Noah DeBolt’s attorney. I think Mr. Tremain was worried this would leak out to his father-in-law.”

“And what a riot that would have caused,” said Chase.

“Having met Mr. DeBolt this morning, yes, I can imagine there would’ve been fireworks.”

Chase leaned forward, his gaze narrowing on the attorney. “The day Richard was here to change his will, how did he seem to you? I mean, his state of mind. People don’t just walk in and change their wills for no good reason.”

FitzHugh frowned. “Well, he seemed…upset. He didn’t mention any fear of dying. Said he just wanted to straighten out his affairs….” He glanced at Miranda and reddened at the unintentional double entendre.

Miranda flushed, as well, but she refused to shrink from his gaze. I’m through with being punished, she thought. Through with cringing at the looks people give me.

“You said he was upset. What do you mean?” asked Chase.

“He seemed angry.”

“At whom?”

“We didn’t discuss it. He just came in and said he didn’t want the cottage to go to Mrs. Tremain.”

“He was specific about Evelyn?”

“Yes. And he was concerned only about Rose Hill Cottage. Not the bank account or the other assets. I assumed it was because those other assets were joint marital property, and he couldn’t redirect those. But Rose Hill was his, through inheritance. He could dispose of it as he wished.” FitzHugh looked at Miranda. “And he wanted you to have it.”

She shook her head. “Why?”

“I assume, because he cared about you. Giving you Rose Hill was his way of telling you how much.”

In silence Miranda bowed her head. She knew both men were watching her. She wondered what expression she’d see in Chase’s eyes. Cynicism? Disbelief? You can’t imagine that your brother would feel love, not just lust, for a woman like me?

“So, Ms. Wood?” asked FitzHugh. “You agree this isn’t a move you should make?”

She raised her head and looked across the desk at the attorney. “Draw up the papers. I want to do it now.”

“Maybe you don’t,” said Chase quietly.

Miranda looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

“Mr. FitzHugh has brought up some points I hadn’t considered. You should think about it, just for a few days.” His gaze met Miranda’s. She could see that he was baffled by something he’d heard here today.

“Are you saying I should keep Rose Hill Cottage?”

“All I’m saying is this. Richard had a reason for changing the will. Before we go changing things back, let’s find out why he did it.”

Vernon FitzHugh nodded. “My thoughts exactly,” he said.

They exchanged scarcely a word on the ferry back to Shepherd’s Island. Only when they’d driven off the pier and turned onto Shore Circle Road did Miranda stir from her silence. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“The north shore.”

“Why?”

“I want you to see Rose Hill. It’s only fair you know exactly what you’re handing back to Evelyn.”

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” she said. “Running me around in circles. Playing your little mind games. One minute you say I’m stealing Tremain property. The next, you’re trying to talk me into playing thief. What’s the point of it all, Chase?”

“I’m bothered by what FitzHugh told us. That Richard wanted to keep the cottage away from Evelyn.”

“But it should go to her.”

“Rose Hill came from my mother’s side. The Pruitts. Evelyn has no claim to it.”

“He could have left it to you.”

Chase laughed. “Not likely.”

“Why not?”

“We weren’t exactly the closest of brothers. I was lucky just to get his collection of rusty Civil War swords. No, he wanted Rose Hill to go to someone he loved. You were his first choice. Maybe his only choice.”

“He didn’t love me, Chase,” she said softly. “Not really.”

They drove north, winding past summer cottages, past granite cliffs jagged with pines, past stony beaches where waves broke into white foam. Gulls circled and swooped at the blue-gray sea.

“Why did you say that?” he asked. “About Richard not loving you?”

“Because I knew. I think I always knew. Oh, maybe he thought he loved me. But for Richard, love was a lot of moonlight and madness. A fever that eventually breaks. It was just a matter of time.”

“That sounds like Richard. As a kid, he was always in pursuit of the never-ending high.”

“Are all you Tremains like that?”

“Hardly. My father was married to his work.”

“And what are you married to?”

He glanced at her. She was struck by the intensity of his gaze, the gaze of a man who’s not afraid to tell the truth. “Nothing and no one. At least, not anymore. Not since Christine.”

“Your wife?”

He nodded. “It didn’t last very long. I was just a kid, really, only twenty. Doing my share of wild and crazy things. It was a handy way to get back at my father, and it worked.”

“What happened to Christine?”

“She found out I wasn’t going to inherit the Tremain fortune and she walked out. Smart girl. She, at least, was using her head.”

He focused on the road, which he obviously knew well. Miranda noticed how easily he handled the curves, guiding the car skillfully around each treacherous bend. Whatever wildness he’d displayed in his youth had since been reined in. Here was a man in tight control of his life, his emotions, not a man in pursuit of the ephemeral moonlight and madness.

A twenty-minute drive brought them to the last stretch of paved road. The asphalt gave way to a dirt access road flanked by birch and pine. Rustic signs proclaimed the different camps hidden among the tress. Mom and Pop’s. Brandywine Cottage. Sanity Camp. Here and there, dirt tracks led off to the dozen or so summer retreats of prominent island families, most of whom had held their cottages for generations.

The access road began to climb, winding a half mile up the contours of the hillside. They passed a stone marker labeled St. John’s Wood. Then they came to the last sign, every bit as rustic as the others: Rose Hill. A final bend in the road took them through the last stand of trees, and then a broad, sloping field lay before them. It sat at the very crest of the hill — a weathered cottage facing north, to the sea. Vines of purple clematis clung lovingly about the veranda railings. Rosebushes, overgrown with weeds but still valiantly blooming, crouched like thorny sentinels beside the porch steps.

They parked in the gravel turnaround and stepped out into an afternoon fragrant with the scent of flowers and sun-warmed grass. For a moment Miranda stood motionless, her face turned to the sky. Not a cloud marred that perfect blue. A single gull, riding the wind off the hillside, drifted overhead.

“Come on,” said Chase. “Let me show you inside.”

He led her up the porch steps. “I haven’t seen the place in at least ten years. I’m almost afraid to go in.”

“Afraid of what?”

“The changes. Of what they might’ve done to it. But I guess that’s how it is with your childhood home.”