Steven Womack - By Blood Written

Inside her head, she backed away from it all, as if she were watching someone else from the outside. The pain in her body seemed to lessen. She wondered if it was possible to die from retching.

And then it seemed to pass, at least for a moment.

Taylor leaned back, her hips on the floor, her back against the metal partition, her legs folded up, her knees against her chest. She tried to loosen her chest, to breathe slowly and deeply, to stop the panicked, shallow panting.

She stared at the scratched gray paint in front of her. This seemed suddenly like a dream, as if this couldn’t really be happening.

No , she thought, the voice in her head shouting. This is happening! This is real!

The only thing she could be grateful for at this moment was that at least she was alone. She had time to gather her wits, to try and get her head around this.

Brett Silverman, Michael’s editor, had called her, tracked her down on the cell phone. Brett had a friend down the street from her brownstone in Chelsea, a gay clothing designer who lived in the London Towers, who had moved to Manhattan from Cleveland, Tennessee, in Hamilton County just north of Chattanooga. He never missed home-Cleveland, Tennessee, being less than hospitable to openly gay clothing designers-but for some reason or other, he compulsively read the hometown paper.

He had been the first to call.

Brett, panicked, had called Taylor’s apartment. Michael answered the phone. Brett, thinking perhaps faster on her feet than she ever had before, simply asked for Taylor. She’d gone into the office, Michael said. Something about having some quiet time to clear up some paperwork.

Seconds later, Taylor’s cell phone went off. She answered it, and a few short sentences later, was running down the darkened hallway for the restroom.

Taylor reached up and tore off a couple of feet of toilet paper, wadded it up and blew her nose into it. She folded the wad in half and wiped off her forehead.

Then she crossed her arms over her bent knees and rested her head wearily on her forearms. The day that Jack died, she threw up that hard as well, for what seemed like hours, until her body simply gave in to exhaustion.

“This can’t be happening,” she whispered.

She put her hands flat on the cold, dirty tile and pushed herself up a few inches, then cocked her legs and stood up slowly, unsteadily. She was dizzy, off kilter, wondering if the retching was about to start again. The acid taste of bile backed up in her mouth from her throat, which would, she feared, be raw and sore for days.

Taylor held on to the door as she slowly walked out of the stall. It was dark in the restroom, the only light coming from a translucent window honeycombed with chicken wire.

She flipped the light switch on. The harsh fluorescent light flickered painfully. She quickly snapped it back off.

She walked over in the dim light and stared at herself in the grimy mirror. Her hair was wet on the ends, matted, a tangled mess. Even in the low light, she could see that she looked pale, washed out. She’d have to pull herself together before she left.

She turned on the cold water, leaned over, and splashed some in her face. It felt good. A shiver went up and down her back, and she realized she’d been sweating all over. She drank a small sip of the cold water. It tasted wonderful, made her throat instantly feel better.

And it stayed down.

She blotted her face with a paper towel, then walked back to her office almost in a daze. She was grateful that no one else had come in. As she pulled out her keys and opened the front door of the office, the phone started ringing.

Taylor walked over to the receptionist’s desk and reached for the phone, but at the last minute held back. She heard the answering machine inside the desk answer with the standard greeting, then a beep, followed by a muffled voice.

“Yes, this is Harry Greene of the New York Post . I’m trying to reach Taylor Robinson. It’s very important. Please call me back at-”

My God , she thought, walking away from the desk, it’s already started.

Taylor went back to her office and shut, then locked, the door behind her. She sat down at her computer, brought up her Internet browser, then Googled “Chattanooga newspapers.” A couple of clicks later, she was at the Web site.

She felt a spasm in her chest as Michael’s picture appeared line by line on her screen. She saw the headline and thought for a moment that she was about to vomit again.

“Oh, Jesus,” she whispered. Her forehead broke out in sweat again.

She forced herself to read the story, all of it, including the sidebar on Michael’s seemingly meteoric rise to fame and fortune as the Chaney books took off. The reporter even quoted from some reviews that she remembered and considered glowing at the time, but now seemed eerily foreboding.

“Schiftmann’s Chaney makes murder fun,” one reviewer wrote. “Who would have ever guessed that something so completely evil could be so charming?”

She leaned back in her chair, trying to take all this in. The initial shock was slowly beginning to wear off. She’d read the story, and the essence of the article was that Michael was going to be indicted for murder. But the case itself had not been laid out. There were few details, few specifics about the evidence against him. It was, of course, impossible to believe that any of the accusations were true. But what was undeniable was that Michael, and she, had a fight on their hands.

“Joan,” she said out loud. “Call Joan.”

She reached for her office phone, then held off. No, not Joan. Not first.

Michael.

She picked up her cell phone and punched 1. The cell phone’s speed dial went to work, and a few seconds later, her home phone was ringing.

“Hey, you,” Michael said. His voice was relaxed, normal.

“How are you?”

“You’re still there,” she said.

“Yeah, I was just reading the Sunday paper. Waiting for you to get home. What’s up?”

“Have there been any phone calls?” Taylor asked.

“Brett Silverman called, but that’s-”

“I talked to her,” Taylor interrupted. “Listen, we’ve got to talk. I want you to stay there, don’t leave the apartment.

If anyone comes to the door, don’t answer it. And for God’s sakes, don’t answer the phone. Don’t even pick it up. I’m on my way.”

“What’s up?” he asked, concerned now.

“Not on the phone. Sit tight. I’m on my way.”

Michael exploded after she told him. His face turned red, and it seemed as if the skin of his cheeks was stretched to the point of tearing.

“Those ignorant bastards!” he yelled. “What the hell do they think they’re doing?”

“I know,” Taylor said calmly, trying desperately to placate him. Michael had a terrible temper, she knew. She had gotten glimpses of it only a few times, but it was enough to let her know that beneath the surface, there was a reservoir of angry energy.

“I’ll sue the shit out of them!” he shouted.

“Yes, once we prove them wrong, we’re going to drag them through every court in the country. Malicious prosecution, prosecutorial misconduct, libel, slander, the whole gamut. But first we’ve got to prove them wrong.”

Michael stopped, turned, and stared at her. “What are you thinking?”

“We’ve got to find you a lawyer, and a good one.”

Michael reached up and rubbed his forehead. He suddenly looked tired. “I don’t even know any lawyers here, let alone any lawyers there.”

“I’ll call Joan,” Taylor said. “She knows everybody. She needs to know what’s going on anyway. This is going to hit the media, Michael, and soon. The only reason they’re not at our door now is my unlisted phone number.”