Presumed Guilty

garbage. I heard him talking about it later, to his accountant. He said, ‘I cut the deadwood, just as you advised.’ Deadwood. Those employees had been with the Herald for years. Richard had the money. He could have carried the loss.”

“He was a businessman.”

“Right. That’s exactly what he was.” Her hair, tossed by the wind, was like flames dancing. She was a wild and blazing fire, full of anger at him, at Richard, at the Tremains.

“So we’ve added to the pool of suspects,” he said. “All those poor souls who lost their jobs. And their families. Why don’t we toss in Richard’s children? His father-in-law? His wife?”

“Yes! Why not Evelyn?”

Chase snorted in disgust. “You’re very good, you know that? All that smoke and mirrors. But you haven’t convinced me. I hope the jury is just as smart. I hope to hell they see through you and make you pay.”

She looked at him mutely, all the fire, all the spirit suddenly drained from her body.

“I’ve already paid,” she whispered. “I’ll pay for the rest of my life. Because I’m guilty. Not of killing him. I didn’t kill him.” She swallowed and looked away. He could no longer see her face, but he could hear the anguish in her voice. “I’m guilty of being stupid. And naive. Guilty of having faith in the wrong man. I really thought I loved your brother. But that was before I knew him. And then, when I did know him, I tried to walk away. I wanted to do it while we were still…friends.”

He saw her hand come up and stroke quickly across her face. It suddenly struck him how very brave she was. Not brazen, as he’d first thought upon seeing her today, but truly, heartbreakingly courageous.

She raised her head again, her gaze drawing level to his. The tears she’d tried to wipe away were still glistening on her lashes. He had a sudden, crazy yearning to touch her face, to wipe away the wetness of those tears. And with that yearning came another, just as insane, a man’s hunger to know the taste of her lips, the softness of her hair. At once he took a step back, as though retreating from some dangerous flame. He thought, I can see why you fell for her, Richard. Under different circumstances I might have fallen for her myself.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered in disgust. “What does it matter now, what I felt? To you or to anyone else?” Without looking back she left him and started up the driveway. Her abrupt departure seemed to leave behind an unfillable vacuum.

“Ms. Wood!” he yelled. She kept walking. He called out, “Miranda!” She stopped. “I have one question for you,” he said. “Who bailed you out?”

Slowly she turned and looked at him. “You tell me,” she said.

And then she walked away.

It was a long walk to the newspaper building. It took Miranda past familiar streets and storefronts, past people she knew. That was the worst part. She felt them staring at her through the shop windows. She saw them huddle in groups and whisper to each other. No one came right out and said anything to her face. They didn’t have to. All I lack, she thought, is a scarlet letter sewn on my chest. M for murderess.

She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and walked up Limerock Street. The Herald building stood before her, a brick-and-slate haven against all those watching eyes. She ducked through the double glass doors, into the newsroom.

Inside, all activity came to a dead halt.

She felt assaulted by all those startled looks.

“Hello, Miranda,” said a cool voice.

Miranda turned. Jill Vickery, the managing editor, glided out of the executive office. She hadn’t changed clothes since the funeral. On dark-haired, ivory-skinned Jill, the color black looked quite elegant. Her short skirt hissed against her stockings as she clipped across the floor.

“Is there something I can do for you?” Jill asked politely.

“I–I came to get my things.”

“Yes, of course.” Jill shot a disapproving glance at the other employees, who were still gawking. “Are we all so efficient that we’ve no more work to do?”

At once everyone redirected their attention to their jobs.

Jill looked at Miranda. “I’ve already taken the liberty of cleaning out your desk. It’s all in a box downstairs.”

Miranda was so grateful for Jill’s simple civility she scarcely registered annoyance that her desk had been coldbloodedly emptied of her belongings. She said, “I’ve also a few things in my locker.”

“They should still be there. No one’s touched it.” There was a silence. “Well,” said Jill, a prelude to escape from a socially awkward situation. “I wish you luck. Whatever happens.” She started back toward her office.

“Jill?” called Miranda.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering about that article on Tony Graffam. Why it didn’t run.”

Jill looked at her with frank puzzlement. “Why does it matter?”

“It just does.”

Jill shrugged. “It was Richard’s decision. He pulled the story.”

“Richard’s? But he was working on it for months.”

“I can’t tell you his reasons. I don’t know them. He just pulled it. And anyway, I don’t think he ever wrote the story.”

“But he told me it was nearly finished.”

“I’ve checked his files.” Jill turned and walked toward her office. “I doubt he ever got beyond the research stage. You know how he was, Miranda. The master of overstatement.”

Miranda stared after her in bewilderment. The master of overstatement. It hurt to admit it, but yes, there was a lot of truth in that label.

People were staring at her again.

She headed down the stairwell and pushed into the women’s lounge. There she found Annie Berenger, lacing up running shoes. Annie was dressed in her usual rumpled-reporter attire — baggy drawstring pants, wrinkled cotton shirt. The inside of her locker looked just as disorderly, a mound of wadded-up clothes, towels and books.

Annie glanced up and tossed her head of gray-streaked hair in greeting. “You’re back.”

“Just to clean out my things.” Miranda found the cardboard box with her belongings stuffed under one of the benches. She dragged it out and carried it to her locker.

“I saw you at the funeral,” said Annie. “That took guts, Mo.”

“I’m not sure guts is the word for it.”

Annie shoved her locker door shut and breathed a sigh of relief. “Comfortable at last. I just had to change out of that funeral getup. Can’t think in those stupid high heels. Cuts the blood supply to my brain.” She finished lacing up her running shoe. “So what’s going to happen next? With you, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I refuse to think beyond a day or two.” Miranda opened her locker and began to throw things into the box.

“Rumor has it you have friends in high places.”

“What?”

“Someone bailed you out, right?”

“I don’t know who it was.”

“You must have an idea. Or is this your lawyer’s advice, to plead ignorance?”

Miranda gripped the locker door. “Don’t, Annie. Please.”

Annie cocked her head, revealing all the lines and freckles of too many summers in the sun. “I’m being a jerk, aren’t I? Sorry. It’s just that Jill assigned me to the trial. I don’t like having to drag an old colleague across the front page.” She watched as Miranda emptied the locker and shut the door. “So. Can I get a statement from you?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I’ve already heard that one.”