Presumed Guilty

by Tess Gerritsen

  That’s how they’ll try to portray me. As a killer. And some people will believe it.

  Chase had fallen asleep.

  For a moment she sat beside him, listening to his slow and even breaths, wondering if he could ever learn to trust her. If she could ever be more to him than just a piece of the puzzle—the puzzle of his brother’s death.

  She rose and pulled the coverlet over his sleeping form. He didn’t move. Gently she smoothed back his hair, stroked the beard-roughened cheek. Still he didn’t move.

  She left him and went downstairs. The boxes of papers confronted her, other bits and pieces of that puzzle. She separated them into files. Article files. Financial records. Personal notes from M, as well as from other, unidentified women. The miscellaneous debris of a man’s life. How little she had known Richard! What a vast part of him he had kept private, even from his family. That’s why he had so jealously guarded this north shore retreat.

  In the fabric of his life, I was just a single, unimportant thread. Will I ever stop hurting from that?

  She rose and checked the doors, the windows. Then she went back upstairs, to the master bedroom.

  Chase was still asleep. She knew she should use the other room, the other bed, but tonight she didn’t want to lie alone in the darkness. She wanted warmth and safety and the comfort of knowing Chase was nearby.

  She had promised to look after him tonight. What better place to watch over him than in the same bed?

  She lay down beside him, not close but near enough to imagine his warmth seeping toward her through the sheets.

  Sometime during the night the dreams came.

  A man, a lover, was holding her. Protecting her. Then she looked up at his face and saw he was a stranger. She pulled away, began to run. She found she was in a crowd of people. She began to search for a familiar face, a pair of arms she could reach out to, but they were all strangers, all strangers.

  And then there he was, standing far beyond her reach. She cried out to him, held her hands out for him to grab. He moved toward her and her hands connected with warm and solid flesh. She heard him say, “I’m here, Miranda. Right here....”

  And he was.

  Through the semidarkness she saw the gleam of his face, the twin shadows of his eyes. His gaze was so still, so very quiet. Her breath caught as he took her face in his hands. Slowly he pressed his lips to hers. That one touch sent a shudder of pleasure through her body. They stared at each other and the night seemed filled with the sounds of their breathing.

  Again, he kissed her.

  Again, that wave of pleasure. It crested to a wanting for more, more. Her sleep-drugged body awoke, alive with hunger. She pressed hard against him, willing their bodies to meld, their warmth to mingle, but that frustrating barrier of clothes still lay between them.

  He reached for her T-shirt. Slowly he pulled it up and over her head, let it drop from the bed. She was not so patient. Already she was undoing his buttons, sliding back his shirt, fumbling at his belt buckle. No words were spoken; none were needed. The soft whispers, the whimpers, the moans said more than any words could have.

  So did his hands. His fingers slid across, between, inside all the warm and secret places of her body. They teased her, inflamed her, brought her to the very edge of release. Then, with knowing cruelty, they abandoned her, leaving her unsatisfied. She reached out to him, silently pleading for more.

  He grasped her hips and willingly thrust into her again, but this time not with his fingers.

  She cried out, a sound of joy, of delight.

  At the first ripple of her climax he let his own needs take over. Needs that made him drive deep inside her, again and again. As her last wave of pleasure washed through her, he found his own cresting, breaking. He rode it to the very end and collapsed, sweating and triumphant, into her welcoming arms.

  And so they fell asleep.

  * * *

  Chase was the first to awaken. He found his arms looped around her, his face buried in the sweet-smelling strands of her hair. She was curled up on her side, facing away from him, the silky skin of her back pressed against his chest. The memory of their lovemaking was at once so vivid he felt his body respond with automatic desire. And why not, with this woman in his arms? She was life and lust and honeyed warmth. She was everything a woman should be.

  And I’m treading on dangerous ground.

  He pulled away and sat up. Morning light shone through the window, onto her pillow. So innocent she looked, so untouched by evil. It occurred to him that Jill Vickery once must have looked as pure.

  Before she shot her lover.

  Dangerous women. How could you tell them from the innocents?

  He left the bed and went straight to the shower. Wash the magical spell away, he thought. Wash away the desire, the craving for Miranda Wood. She was like a sickness in his blood, making him do insane things.

  Last night, for instance.

  They had simply fallen into it, he told himself. A physical act, that was all, a chance collision of two warm bodies.

  He watched her sleep as he dressed. With each layer of clothes he felt more protected, more invulnerable. But when she stirred and opened her eyes and smiled at him, he realized how thin his emotional armor really was.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” she asked softly.

  “Much better, thanks. I think I can drive myself back to town.”

  There was a silence. Her smile faded as she took in the fact he was already dressed. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I just wanted to make sure you got out of here safely.”

  She sat up. Hugging the sheets to her chest, she watched him for a moment, as though trying to understand what had gone wrong between them. At last she said, “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to wait around.”

  “I’ll stay. Until you get dressed.”

  A shrug was her response, as if it didn’t matter to her one way or the other. Good, he thought. No sticky emotions over last night. We’re both too smart for that.

  He started to leave, then stopped. “Miranda?”

  “Yes?”

  He turned to look at her. She was still hugging her knees, still every bit as bewitching. To see her there could break any man’s heart. He said, “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a wonderful woman. It’s just that...”

  “Don’t worry about it, Chase,” she said flatly. “We both know it won’t work.”

  He wanted to say, “I’m sorry,” but somehow it seemed too lame, too easy. They were both adults. They had both made a mistake.

  There was nothing more to be said.

  * * *

  “It’s not as if any of this is incriminating,” said Annie, flipping through the notes from M that were arrayed on her kitchen table. “Just your routine desperate-woman language. Darling. If you’d only see me. If only this, if only that. It’s pathetic, but it’s not murderous. It doesn’t tell us that M—whoever she is—killed him.”

  “You’re right.” Miranda sighed, leaning back in the kitchen chair. “And it doesn’t seem to tie in with Jill at all.”

  “Sorry. The only M around here is you. I’d say these letters could cause you more damage than good.”

  “Jill said there was a summer intern a year ago. A woman who got involved with Richard.”

  “Chloe? Ancient history. I can’t imagine she’d sneak back to town just to kill an ex-lover. Besides, there’s no M in her name.”

  “The M could stand for a nickname. A name only Richard used for her.”

  “Muffin? Marvelous?” Laughing, Annie rose to her feet. “I think we’re beating a dead horse. And I’m going to be late.” She went to the closet and pulled out a warm-up jacket. “Irving hates to be kept waiting.”

  Miranda glanced with amusement at Annie’s
attire: a torn T-shirt, scruffy running shoes and sweatpants. “Irving likes the casual look?”

  “Irving is the casual look.” Annie slung her purse over her shoulder. “We’re sanding the deck this week. Loads of fun.”

  “Will I ever get to meet this boat bum of yours?”

  Annie grinned. “Soon as I can drag him to shore. I mean, the yachting season’s gotta end one of these days.” She waved. “See ya.”

  After Annie had left, Miranda scrounged together a salad and sat down at the kitchen table for a melancholy dinner. Irving and his boat didn’t sound like much in the way of companionship, but at least Annie had someone to keep her company. Someone to keep away the loneliness.

  Once, Miranda hadn’t minded being alone. She’d even enjoyed the silence, the peace of a house all to herself. Now she craved the simple presence of another human being. Even a dog would be nice. She’d have to think about getting one, a large one. A dog wouldn’t desert her the way most of her friends had. The way Chase had.

  She set down her fork, her appetite instantly gone. Where was he now? Probably sitting in that house on Chestnut Street, surrounded by all the other Tremains. He’d have Evelyn and the twins to keep him company. He wouldn’t be alone or lonely. He would be just fine without her.

  In anger she rose to her feet and slid the remains of her salad into the trash. Then she started for the door, determined to get outside, to run around the block, anything to escape the house.

  At the front door she halted. A visitor stood on the porch, hand poised to ring the bell.

  “Jill,” whispered Miranda.

  This was not the cool, unflappable Jill she knew. This Jill was white-faced and brittle.

  “Annie’s not here right now,” said Miranda. “She...should be back any minute.”

  “You’re the one I came to see.” Without warning Jill slipped right past into the living room and shut the door behind her.

  “I—I was just on my way out.” Miranda edged slowly for the door.

  Jill took a sidestep, blocking her way. For a moment she stood there, regarding Miranda. “It’s not as if I haven’t been punished,” she said softly. “I’ve done everything I could to put it behind me. Everything. I’ve worked like a madwoman these last five years. Built the Herald into a real newspaper. You think Richard knew what he was doing? Of course not! He relied on me. Me. Oh, he never admitted it, but he let me run the show. Five years. And now you’ve ruined it for me. You’ve already got the police shoveling up old dirt. You think the Tremains will keep me on? Now that they know? Now that everyone knows?”

  “I wasn’t the one. I didn’t tell Lorne.”

  “You’re the reason it’s all come up! You and your pathetic denials! Why don’t you just admit you killed him? And leave the rest of us out of it.”

  “But I didn’t kill him.”

  Jill began to pace the room. “I’ve sinned, you’ve sinned. Everyone has. We’re all equal. What sets us apart is how we live with our sins. I’ve done the best I could. And now I find it’s not good enough. Not good enough to erase what happened....”

  “Did Richard know? About San Diego?”

  “No. I mean, yes, in the end. He found out. But it didn’t matter to him—”

  “It didn’t matter that you killed a man?”

  “He understood the circumstances. Richard was good that way.” She let out a shaky laugh. “After all, he himself wasn’t above a little sinning.”

  Miranda paused, gathered the courage for her next question. “You had an affair with him, didn’t you?”

  Jill’s response was a careless shrug. “It didn’t mean anything. It was years ago. You know, the new girl on the block. He got over it.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. We stayed friends. We understood each other.” She stopped pacing and turned to look at Miranda. “Now Lorne wants to know where I was the night Richard was killed. He’s asking me to come up with an alibi! You’re casting the blame all around, aren’t you? To hell with who gets hurt. You just want off the hook. Well, sometimes that’s not possible.” She moved closer, her gaze fixed on Miranda, like a cat’s on a bird. Softly she said, “Sometimes we have to pay for our sins. Whether it’s an indiscreet affair. Or murder. We pay for it. I did. Why can’t you?”

  They stared at each other, caught in a binding fascination for each other’s transgressions, each other’s pain. Killer and victim, thought Miranda. That’s what I see in her eyes. Is that what you see in mine?

  The telephone rang, shattering the silence.

  The sound seemed to rattle Jill. At once she turned and reached for the door. There she stopped. “You think you’re the exception, Miranda. You think you’re untouchable. Just wait. In a few years, when you’re my age, you’ll know just how vulnerable you are. We all are.”

  She walked out, closing the door behind her.

  At once Miranda slid the bolt home.

  The phone had stopped ringing. Miranda stared at it, wondering if it had been Chase, praying that he would call again.

  The phone remained silent.

  She began to pace the living room, hoping Chase, Annie, anyone would call. Starved for the sound of a human voice, she turned on the TV. Mindless entertainment, that’s what she needed. For a half hour she sat on the couch among Annie’s discarded socks and sweatshirts, flicking nervously between channels. Opera. Basketball. Game show. Opera again. In frustration she flicked it back to basketball.

  Something clattered in the next room.

  Startled, she left the couch and went into the kitchen. There she found herself staring down at a plastic saucer rolling around and around on its side across the linoleum floor. It collapsed, shuddered and fell still. Had it tumbled off the drainboard? She looked up at the sink and noticed, for the first time, that the window was wide open.

  That’s not the way I left it.

  Slowly she backed away. The gun—Annie’s gun. She had to get it.

  In panic she turned to make a dash for the living room—

  And found her head brutally trapped, her mouth covered by a wad of cloth. She flailed blindly against her captor, against the fumes burning her nose, her throat, but found her arms wouldn’t work right. Her legs seemed to slide away from her, dissolving into some bottomless hole. She felt herself falling, caught a glimpse of the light as it receded into an impossibly high place. She tried to reach out for it but found her arms had gone numb.

  The light wavered, shrank.

  And then it winked out, leaving only the darkness.

  * * *

  Phillip was banging away at the piano. Rachmaninoff, Chase thought wearily. Couldn’t the boy choose something a little more sedate? Mozart, for instance, or Haydn. Anything but this Russian thunder.

  Chase headed out to the veranda, hoping to escape the racket, but the sound of the piano seemed to pound right through the walls. Resignedly he stood at the railing and stared toward the harbor. Already sunset. The sea had turned to red flame.

  He wondered what Miranda was doing.

  Wondered if he’d ever stop wondering.

  This morning, when they’d driven off in their separate cars, their separate ways, he’d known their relationship had gone as far as it could. To go any further would require a level of trust he wasn’t ready to give her. Their amateur detective work had come to a dead end; for now they had no reason to see each other. It was time to let the pros take over. The police, at least, would be objective. They wouldn’t be swayed by emotions or hormones.

  They still believed Miranda was guilty.

  “Uncle Chase?” Cassie pushed through the screen door and came out to join him. “You can’t stand the music, either, I see.”

  He smiled. “Don’t tell your brother.”

  “It’s not that he’s a bad musician. He’s just...loud.” She l
eaned against one of the posts and looked up at the sky, at the first stars winking in the gathering darkness. “Think you could do me a favor?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “When Mom gets home, will you talk to her? About the Herald.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, with all that’s come up—about Jill Vickery, I mean—it’s beginning to look like we’ll need a strong hand on the helm. We all know Dad groomed Phillip to be the designated heir. And he’s a bright kid—I’m not putting him down or anything. But the fact is, Phillip’s just not that interested.”

  “He hasn’t said much about it, one way or the other.”

  “Oh, he won’t say anything. He’ll never admit the truth. That he’s not crazy about the job.” She paused, then said with steel in her voice, “But I am.”

  Chase frowned at his niece. Not yet twenty, and she had the look of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted in life. “You think you have what it takes?”

  “It’s in my blood! I’ve been involved from the time I could put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard. I know how that office works. I can write, edit, lay out ads, drive the damn delivery truck. I can run that paper. Phillip can’t.”

  Chase remembered Cassie’s term papers, the ones he’d glanced through at the cottage. They weren’t just the chewing up and spitting out of textbook facts, but thoughtful, critical analyses.

  “I think you’d do a terrific job,” he said. “I’ll talk to your mother.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Chase. I’ll remember to mention your name when I get my Pulitzer.” Grinning, she turned to go back into the house.

  “Cassie?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think of Jill Vickery?”

  Cassie frowned at the change of subject. “You mean as a managing editor? She was okay. Considering what she got paid, we were lucky to keep her.”

  “I mean, on a personal level.”

  “Well, that’s hard to say. You never really get to know Jill. She’s like a closed book. I never had any idea about that stuff in San Diego.”

  “Do you think she had an affair with your father?”