Lorna Michaels - The Truth About Elyssa

Jenny looked up and smiled, but Elyssa thought the smile seemed forced. “Really. My folks and Randy’s have given me so much support, and of course, Randy’s buried there. It’s as close as I can get to him.” Her wide brown eyes filled with tears, and she grabbed a clean napkin and wiped them away. “Sorry. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to talk about Randy without sniffling. His death was so…so vicious.”

Vicious was a strange way to describe it. The crash was a quirk of fate, yet Jenny was talking as…as if…

“You make the wreck sound like someone caused it. Like it was deliberate.”

“I think it was.” Jenny’s eyes glittered with dark fury.

Stunned, Elyssa stared at her friend. “It was an accident,” she insisted, then her voice trailed off. She groped for breath. Everyone—her family, friends, the police—had said Randy’s car skidded on wet pavement. She’d accepted that. Because she couldn’t remember anything different. She fumbled for her glass, took a swallow of tea. “You think someone killed Randy?”

“Sure as I’m sittin’ here.”

Elyssa reached for her friend’s hand. It was ice-cold. “Jenny, why would anyone want to do that?”

“He was working on a story.” Jenny leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He wouldn’t talk about it, but I know he was preoccupied, even obsessed by it. I’d wake up at night and he’d be up pacing or scribbling in a tablet.” She raised her eyes. “You were his best friend at the station. Do you know what the story was about?”

“No. He didn’t say anything to me.” Or did he? That last night. The memory stayed tauntingly just out of reach. “Are you sure about this, Jenny? Maybe you’re reading something into—”

“I found some notes.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and held it out.

Elyssa’s hand shook as she took the note. She recognized Randy’s handwriting and, seeing it again after so many months, felt a sharp stab of pain. Before her lay a to-do list. She began to read:

Pick up cleaning, get oil changed. Nothing menacing there. But then she saw: Install home security system, make out will. “Will?” she gasped. Randy had been only twenty-eight.

Jenny nodded. “Men his age don’t usually think about wills. I found this, too.” She held out another paper.

An application for a gun permit, dated the day before Randy’s death.

“Why haven’t you said anything?” Elyssa asked. “When did you find these papers?”

“Last week. I finally made myself start goin’ through Randy’s things.” She reached for a napkin, began tearing it into shreds. “After I found this, I remembered how edgy he seemed in the weeks before he died. Whenever we went somewhere, he’d be lookin’ over his shoulder. That wasn’t like him.” She brushed the mutilated napkin out of the way. “I started thinking about the story he was working on and how closemouthed he was about it, when usually he told me everything. There has to be a connection.” She leaned across the table and gripped Elyssa’s hands hard. “Do you remember anything? I have to know.”

Elyssa felt as if an electric current were racing through her body. She heard a buzzing in her ears, then a memory surfaced, but so faintly, so fleetingly, she couldn’t hold on to it. It swirled away, lost in blackness. There’s something, she thought, something I ought to know. But she knew nothing….

“Did you talk to Derek?” she asked. “He would have known what Randy was working on.” She hated mentioning Derek’s name, hated even thinking about him. Derek Graves, news director at Channel 9. Ex-lover. Prize jerk. How could she ever have thought she was in love with him?

“I called him,” Jenny said, “but you know how Derek can be.”

“A first-class jackass,” Elyssa mumbled.

“Right,” Jenny agreed. “Took you long enough to realize it. Anyway, he practically laughed in my face when I asked if Randy was working on something dangerous. He said Randy had covered the school board meeting that week. They were debating whether or not to buy more buses. Sounds tame, doesn’t it?” She bit her lip. “Then why was Randy so nervous?”

“I wish I knew,” Elyssa said. “If I could only remember…”

They both started as Amy appeared beside them. “Mama, can we have more quarters?”

“No, sugar. It’s time we were gettin’ back to the hotel.”

“Aww.”

“There’ll be another day. Now go get your sister.”

Pouting, Amy plodded across the room. Jenny turned back to Elyssa. “I shouldn’t have brought this up, but—”

“Don’t be silly,” Elyssa said. “I’m just sorry I can’t help.” The frustration of not remembering, not knowing, gnawed at her. Surely if she could recall that last evening, she could put Jenny’s mind at rest.

“If you do remember anything, you’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Jenny said. “By the way, I brought you something.” She reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a book. “I wanted you to have something of Randy’s. He was reading this just before he died.”

“Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion by David Brinkley. I’ve always admired him. Thank you for thinking of me.”

While Jenny went to round up her dawdling children, Elyssa glanced at the cover of the famous broadcaster’s book. But she was barely aware of what she held. Her mind was caught up in a question she’d never imagined she would have to ask. Was it possible that Randy’s death—and her own misfortune—hadn’t been accidental after all?

Brett checked his watch. Five-twenty. Elyssa should be here in ten minutes, twenty at most.

He remembered when he’d seen her on TV for the first time. He’d been in Indianapolis a week, maybe two, and for once he’d gotten home early enough to watch the ten o’clock news. He’d grabbed a beer from the fridge, settled back on the couch and pressed the remote.

A face filled the screen, a voice reached out to him, and he sat up straight to watch and listen. He didn’t recall the news story she’d reported, only his impression of her. Sharp, confident, the consummate TV reporter.

But there was more. Beneath the persona of dynamic newswoman, he sensed another kind of magnetism—purely sexual. He imagined those softly tinted lips forming a kissable pout; those eyes misty, dreamy; the skin beneath that trim business suit flushed with desire. He was surprised at himself. He was a man grounded in reality, not given to flights of fancy. Not accustomed to mooning over a face on the TV screen.

Yet he’d watched her often after that and indulged in a few more private fantasies. He remembered he’d been especially partial to the one that took place on his examining table.

Then she disappeared, and eventually he’d all but forgotten her. Now their paths had crossed, and the fantasies had emerged again, in full bloom. Now he wanted to find out if the emotions she stirred were real.

And if they were, what difference would it make?

A serious relationship was out of the question for him. He’d had that once with Denise—begun a love affair, then a marriage, with his heart full of hopes and dreams. How quickly they’d vanished.

Oh, he’d been warned. An older colleague had told him, “Marriage and medicine don’t mix. Being a doctor is like joining a monastic order. You don’t have to be celibate, but you sure as hell don’t have time to make a relationship work.” At the time, with a diamond sparkling on Denise’s finger and a wedding soon to follow, Brett had laughed off the bitter words, attributing them to his friend’s two divorces. Later he’d learned how prophetic that statement was.