Presumed Guilty by Tess Gerritsen Page A

you—”
    “No. I mean, why did you come in the first place?”
    “Oh.” He sat back. “I was at the Herald this afternoon. Talked to Jill Vickery, about the Stone Coast Trust article you mentioned. She says it was never written. That Richard never got that far with it.”
    Miranda shook her head. “I don’t understand. I know he had at least a few pages written. I saw them on his desk, at the Herald. ”
    “Well, I couldn’t find any article. I thought maybe you’d know where to look. Or maybe you’d have it.”
    She looked at him in bewilderment. “Why would I?”
    “I assume Richard was a frequent visitor here.”
    “But he didn’t bring his work. Have you checked the house?”
    “It’s not there.”
    She thought about it a moment. “Sometimes,” she said, “he’d drive up to the north shore, to write. He had a cottage...”
    “You mean Rose Hill. Yes, I suppose I should check there tomorrow.”
    Their gazes intersected, held. She said, “You’re starting to believe me. Aren’t you?”
    He heard, in her voice, the stirring of hope—however faint. He found himself wanting to respond, to offer her some small scrap of a chance that he might believe her. It was hard not to believe her, especially when she looked at him that way, her gaze unwavering, those gray eyes bright and moist. They could rob a man of his common sense, those eyes, could sweep self-control right out from under him. They awakened other sensations as well, disturbing ones. She was sitting more than half a room away, but even at that distance her presence was like some heady perfume, impossible to ignore.
    She asked again, softly, “Do you believe me?”
    Abruptly he rose to his feet, determined to shake off the dangerous spell she was weaving around him. “No,” he said. “I can’t say that I do.”
    “But don’t you see there’s something more to this than just a—a crime of passion?”
    “I admit, things don’t feel quite right. But I’m not ready to believe you. Not by a long shot.”
    There was a knock on the door. Startled, Chase turned to see the door swing open and Annie Berenger poke her head in.
    “Hello, cavalry’s here,” she called. She came in dressed in an old T-shirt and sweatpants. Blades of wet grass clung to her running shoes. “What’s the situation?”
    “I’m fine,” said Miranda.
    “But she needs watching,” said Chase. “If there are any problems, Dr. Steiner’s number is by the phone.”
    “Leaving already?” asked Annie.
    “They’ll be expecting me at home.” He went to the door. There he paused and glanced back at Miranda.
    She hadn’t moved. She just sat there. He had the urge to say something comforting. To tell her that what he’d said earlier wasn’t quite true. That he was starting to believe her. But he couldn’t admit it to her; he could scarcely admit it to himself. And there was Annie, watching everything with her sharp reporter’s eyes.
    So he merely said, “Good night, Miranda. I hope you’re feeling better. And Annie, thanks for the favor.” Then he turned and walked out the door.
    Outside, it took him a few seconds to accustom his eyes to the darkness. By the time he’d reached the edge of the front yard he could finally make out the walkway under his feet.
    He could also see the silhouette of a man standing stoop-shouldered before him on the sidewalk.
    Chase halted, instantly tense.
    “She okay?” asked the man.
    “Who are you?” demanded Chase.
    “I could ask the same o’ you,” came the cranky reply.
    “I’m...visiting,” said Chase.
    “So, is Mo gonna be all right, or what?”
    “Mo? Oh, you mean Miranda. Yes, she’ll be fine, Mr....”
    “Eddie Lanzo. Live next door. Like to keep an eye on her, y’know? Not good, a nice young woman livin’ all by herself. And all these crazies runnin’ around here, peekin’ in windows. Not safe to be female these days.”
    “Someone’s staying with her tonight, so you needn’t worry.”
    “Yeah.