Racine’s turn to shrug. “She’s a part of Rachel. How can I love Rachel and not love her child?”
A man appeared, filling the doorway. He was dressed in khakis and a sports jacket.
“Are you Kathleen O’Dell’s daughters?”
His voice was deep and authoritarian but his eyes gentle. His hands were the size of catcher’s mitts and Maggie caught herself staring at them, thinking they could have easily clasped around her mother’s wrists and stopped the bleeding.
“I’m Maggie,” she finally said, standing. “This is Julia.”
She didn’t bother to correct him, that they weren’t both Kathleen’s daughters. After stopping one suicide attempt and witnessing the aftermath of a second, Julia had earned the right to be called Kathleen’s daughter, though it came wrapped in burden rather than honor.
She offered her hand to shake his and immediately saw his eyes take notice of the scars on her own wrist.
“No, it doesn’t run in the family.”
He didn’t look convinced, but Maggie didn’t think she needed to explain how months ago a killer had tied her hands together with zip ties. How the plastic had cut deep into her skin while she tumbled down rock ledges and ran through a dark forest at night. So deep had the ties cut into her wrists that when she finally sliced herself free she had to dig the plastic out of her flesh. Of course, it left scars and she didn’t need to explain.
“How is she?” Racine asked, standing up beside Maggie.
“I gave her something to help her rest. She asked not to see anyone right now. She’ll be groggy, but in an hour or so I think it would be a good idea for one or both of you to sit with her for a while. You’re welcome to stay here in the meantime or go home and come back. There’s coffee in the reception area outside of the ICU. Cafeteria’s downstairs.”
He went on to tell them how to contact him and what to expect. Maggie tuned him out. She’d heard the litany too many times before.
He left and Maggie and Racine had just sunk back into the sofa when a dog—a brown-and-white corgi— sauntered in.
Maggie looked up to find Dr. James Kernan with two foam cups, which he handed toward them, arms stretched out in front of him.
“Coffee’s awful,” he told them, “but it helps pass the time.”
CHAPTER 72
Sam had the camera set up on a tripod. It made interviewees less nervous when she stood beside a stationary camera than when she held it and pointed it at them. She and Jeffery had found the door unlocked and the house empty except for some trash in a corner, a stack of newspapers, and something that looked like a tray of rat poison on top.
Only one lamp on a timer lit the interior from the middle of the living room floor.
Sam had switched on a ceiling light only to have Jeffery flip it off immediately.
“We’re going to need more light. I didn’t bring backup lighting.”
Still, he insisted she keep it off.
She finished the rest of the coffee Jeffery had brought for her. She hadn’t needed the caffeine. Her adrenaline was enough to keep her going. But for some reason she felt a bit blurry, unfocused. It was funny she hadn’t even noticed Jeffery’s pacing. It was odd that he might be nervous to the point of a sweaty forehead and a tie let askew. This would be a big interview but the two of them had done bigger—several prime ministers, a congressman on the eve of his resignation, and a couple of Taliban leaders.
“I know that you figured it out, Sam.”
Her hands stopped. She thought her heart may have, too.
“Nadira told me about you taking the tapes from the warehouse fires.”
His voice remained calm, but he continued to pace.
Had Jeffery closed all the blinds or were they closed when they came in? She tried not to panic. So what if he did know it was Wes Harper? But maybe he and Jeffery had a deal. He wanted his own show so badly and he was so close to getting it. This one huge feature exclusive could seal his fate.
“What tipped you off?” He was still pacing.
“You knew about the fires so quickly.” He didn’t seem enraged; instead he was almost too calm. “I figured someone had to be tipping you off.”
He stopped in front of her and cocked his head as if he didn’t think he had heard her correctly. His hands had balled up and there was a brown stain that covered one.
“Tipping me off?”
“I saw Wes Harper at the warehouse fires. In the crowd after the second blast.”
He stared at her. His eyes hard, cold blue. And suddenly he laughed. “That’s what you saw on the tapes?”
“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone he was in touch with you. But how can you be certain he won’t? Especially if he’s ready to talk.”
He laughed again and shook his head. “Sam, Sam, if only you hadn’t turned your back on me Saturday night.”
“I know you don’t think you can trust me, but this interview—”
“There’s no interview, Sam.”
“But Harper—”
“There’s no Harper. The reason I knew about the fires, my dear Sam, is because I started them.”
CHAPTER 73
Sam had not even thought about Jeffery.
How could he have started the fires?
“This isn’t funny, Jeffery,” she told him while she gulped lukewarm coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in and dissolve her blur of exhaustion.
“No one tipped me, Sam.” He was pacing the room, checking the windows. “I stumbled upon a ratings bonanza. Why wait for some huge news story when I simply could create one?”
He couldn’t be serious. The room tilted and Sam leaned against the tripod. She closed her eyes for a second, waited for her head to stop spinning. It had to be a joke, a prank.
“Big Mac kept wanting bigger and bigger stories,” Jeffery was saying. “We interview dictators. Not good enough. We almost get killed in the middle of those crazy-ass protests in the Middle East. Not good enough. We get awards for that Afghanistan expose, and yet nobody thinks that’s good enough.”
She opened her eyes, only her eyelids were heavy and for some reason she was seeing three of Jeffery. She blinked several times but she still couldn’t focus.
“Otis taught me a hell of a lot in those rambling letters of his. He gave me the idea. I thought you figured it out that night with Harper. I screwed up and said something about chemical reactions.”
“But how …” Her thoughts slipped away.
“You knew I taught high school. What you didn’t know was that I taught chemistry. Basic stuff. Kid’s play. It was so incredibly perfect,” he continued his rant. “I could time it. Control it so we had every exclusive. But then you—you, Sam—you fucked up.”
She felt her body sliding. Saw the tripod fall. She tried to put out her hands to brace herself but they didn’t work.
“The biggest fire of all and you decided to have a little Chinese with Mama and Sonny Boy. You shut me out.” His voice sounded hard now, like staccato punches. “A whole family died and I missed the exclusive of a lifetime. I had to sit on the fucking sidelines because of you.
