Tess Gerritsen: Presumed Guilty

She inserted the first key into the lock. It didn’t turn.

She tried the second key, then the third. The lock popped open.

She swung open the door and frowned at the contents. On the top shelf were mittens, a pair of old running shoes, a wool scarf.

On the bottom shelf a sweater lay draped over a towel-wrapped bundle. Miranda took out the bundle. The object inside was heavy. She unwrapped the towel, revealed the contents.

It was an old blue-green Olivetti with pica type.

She slid in a scrap of paper and with shaking hands typed the name Margaret Ann Berenger. The e loop was smudged.

An overwhelming sense of relief, almost euphoria, at once washed over her. Quickly she shut the locker and rewrapped the typewriter. As she gathered it up in her arms, a puff of air blew past her cheek. That was all the warning she had, that soft whisper of wind through the door as it opened and shut behind her.

Miranda turned.

The intruder stood in the doorway, her hair a mass of windblown waves, her face utterly devoid of emotion.

Miranda said softly, “Annie.”

In silence Annie’s gaze settled on the typewriter in Miranda’s arms.

“I thought you were with Irving,” said Miranda.

Annie’s gaze slowly rose once again to meet Miranda’s. Sadness now filled those eyes, a look of pain that seemed to spill from her very soul. Why did I never see it before? thought Miranda.

“There is no Irving,” said Annie.

Miranda shook her head in confusion.

“There never was an Irving. I made him up. All the dates, all those evenings out. You see, I’d drive to the harbor. Park there and just sit. Hours, sometimes.” Annie took a deep breath and, shuddering, let it out. “I couldn’t take the pity, Miranda. All that sympathy for an old maid.”

“I never thought that—”

“Of course you did. You all did. Then there was Richard. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that—” Her voice broke. She wiped her hand across her eyes.

Slowly Miranda set the typewriter down on the bench. “Knowing what, Annie?” she asked softly. “How badly he hurt you? How alone you really were?”

A shudder racked Annie’s body.

“He hurt us both,” said Miranda. “Every woman he ever touched. Every woman who ever loved him. He hurt us all.”

“Not the way he hurt me!” Annie cried. The echo of her pain seemed to reverberate endlessly against those stark walls. “Five years of my life, Miranda. That’s what I gave him. Five years of secrets. I was forty-two when we met. I still had time for a baby. A few short years left. I kept hoping, waiting for him to make up his mind. To leave Evelyn.” She wiped her eyes again, smearing a streak of mascara and tears across her cheek. “Now it’s too late for me. It was my last chance and he took it from me. He stole it from me. And then he ended it.” She shook her head, laughing through her tears. “He said he was only trying to be kind. That he didn’t want me to waste any more years on him. Then he said the thing that hurt me most of all. He said, ‘It was just your fantasy, Annie. I never really loved you the way you thought I did.’” The look she gave Miranda was the gaze of a tortured animal’s. “Five years, and he tells me that. What he didn’t tell me was the truth. He’d found someone younger. You.” There was no hostility, no anger in her voice, only quiet resignation. “I never blamed you, Miranda. You didn’t know. You were just another victim. He would have left you, the way he left us all.”

“You’re right, Annie. We were all his victims.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Miranda.” Annie slid her hand into her jacket pocket. “But someone has to suffer for it.” Slowly she withdrew the gun.

Miranda stared at the barrel, now pointed at her chest. She wanted to argue, to plead, anything to make Annie lower the gun. But her voice had frozen in her throat. She could only stare at the black circle of the barrel and wonder if she would feel the bullet.

“Come, Miranda. Let’s go.”

Miranda shook her head. “Where — where are we going?”

Annie opened the door and gestured for Miranda to move first. “Up the stairs. To the roof.”

No one was home.

Chase circled around Annie’s house to the garage and found that the car was gone. Miranda must have returned, then left again. He was standing in the driveway, wondering where to look next, when he heard the phone ringing inside the house. He ran up the porch steps and into the living room to answer the call.

It was Lorne Tibbetts. “Is Miranda there?” he asked.

“No, I’m looking for her.”

“What about Annie Berenger?”

“Not here, either.”

“Okay,” said Lorne. “I want you to leave the house, Chase. Do it right now.”

Chase was stunned by the unexpected command. He said, “I’m waiting for Miranda to show up.”

He heard Lorne turn and say something to Ellis. Then, “Look, we got evidence snowballing down here. If Annie Berenger shows up first, you keep things nice and casual, okay? Don’t rattle her. Just calmly leave the house. Ellis is on his way over.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“We think we know who M is. And it’s not Jill Vickery. Now get out of there.” Lorne hung up.

If it isn’t Jill Vickery…

Chase went to the end table and opened the drawer. Annie’s gun was missing.

He slammed the drawer shut.

Where are you, Miranda?

The next thought sent him running outside to his car. There might still be time to find them. He’d missed Miranda by only five, maybe ten minutes. They couldn’t have gone far, not yet. If he circled around town, kept his eyes open, he might be able to find her car.

If they were still in the area.

I can’t lose you. Now that we can prove your innocence. Now that we have a chance together.

He swung the car around. With tires screeching, he raced back toward town.

“Go on. Up the last flight.”

Miranda paused, her foot on the next step. “Please, Annie…”

“Keep moving.”

Miranda turned to face her. They were already on the third-floor landing. One more flight and then the door to the roof. Once she’d marveled at the beauty of this stairwell, at the carved mahogany banister, the gleaming wood finish. Now it had become a spiral death trap. She gripped the railing, drawing strength from the unyielding support of solid wood.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Go on. Go!”

“We were friends once—”

“Until Richard.”

“But I didn’t know! I had no idea you were in love with him! If only you’d told me.”

“I never told anyone. I couldn’t. It was his idea, you see. Keep it quiet, keep it our little secret. He said he wanted to protect me.”

Then I’m the only one left who knows, thought Miranda. The only one still alive .

“Move,” said Annie. “Up the stairs.”

Miranda didn’t budge. She looked Annie in the eye. Quietly she said, “Why don’t you just shoot me now? Right here. If that’s what you’re going to do anyway.”

“It’s your choice.” Calmly Annie raised the gun. “I’m not afraid of killing. They say that it’s hardest the first time you do it. And you know what? It wasn’t really hard at all. All I had to do was think about how much he hurt me. The knife seemed to move all by itself. I was just a witness.”

“I’m not Richard. I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you will, Miranda. You know the truth.”

“So do the police. They found that letter, Annie. The last one you wrote.”

Annie shook her head. “They arrested Jill tonight. But you’re still the one they’ll blame. Because they’ll find the typewriter in your car. What a clever girl you’ll seem, making up all those letters, planting them in the cottage. Throwing suspicion on poor innocent Jill. But then the guilt caught up with you. You got depressed. You knew jail was inevitable. So you chose the easy way out. You climbed to the roof of the newspaper building. And you jumped.”