her legs had turned to water. Her dad put an arm around her waist. “It’s all right, Sash. Let’s go home.”
It wasn’t all right.
Outside the Senate House, King’s Parade was choked with reporters. Theo Dexter stood on the steps, hand in hand with his wife, holding court. “No, I don’t feel victorious,” he told the
Times
correspondent. “I’m relieved this is over. I’m relieved I can get back to work. I’m heartbroken at the pain I’ve caused my wife.” He looked at Theresa, his eyes welling with tears.
“How do you feel about Sasha Miller?” another journalist shouted. “Will you be pursuing any legal action against her?”
Theo shook his head magnanimously. “I think it’s clear that Miss Miller is a gravely troubled young person. I have no desirefor vengeance. I wish her the best, and I hope her family are able to get her the help she needs.”
As he finished speaking, Sasha emerged from the building, propped up like a drunk between her bewildered parents.
“Are you going to make any statement, Sasha?”
“Will you be going back to St. Michael’s?”
“The university has asked for a formal retraction. Any comment on that?”
“No comment!” Don Miller roared. It was like walking through a pack of wolves. “Get the hell away from my daughter.”
“Are you sorry, Sasha?”
Sasha looked up.
Am I sorry? Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Theo Dexter. I’m sorry I put my family through this. I’m sorry that none of you can open your eyes and see the truth.
The mob followed her to the car. Cameras clattered against the sides of Don’s rickety Volvo as the family drove away. Sasha stared out the window at the colleges, their towers and steeples and portcullises bathed in late-afternoon light. She remembered the day she had first arrived at St. Michael’s, full of hope and promise and excitement, her head full of thoughts of Will Temple, the boy she’d left back home. It was only two years ago. But it felt like a lifetime.
That girl is gone forever
, thought Sasha.
She knew she would never return to Cambridge again.
It was almost midnight before Theo had a chance to call Ed Gilliam. What with all the press to deal with, and the celebratory drinks party at the Masters’ Lodge, followed by a romantic, thank-you-for-standing-by-me supper with Theresa, he hadn’t had a second alone since the verdict.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Gilliam laughed. “Not likely. I’m so wired I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.”
“So come on, put me out of my misery. How did you do it?”
“Harold Grier, you mean?”
“When I saw him after recess I thought we were sunk. How did you get him to change his mind?”
“The same way you get anyone to change their mind. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Money?”
“Better than that. I told him I’d get him a book deal for his new thesis. That and a sponsor for his next five years of research.”
“But Grier’s research is impenetrable. Not even physicists can understand it.”
“Hey, I didn’t say the book would sell. I told him we’d publish it.”
“Who’s going to sponsor him?”
“You are, Theo. Or rather, your TV production company. Once your show gets syndicated globally, believe me, the payments to dear old Harold will be a drop in the ocean.”
“My show? What show?”
Ed Gilliam laughed out loud. “Get some sleep, Theo. You’re about to become a very,
very
busy man.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York, five years later
Jackson Dupree emerged from the elevator like a rock star walking onstage. With good reason. On Wall Street, Jackson Dupree
was
a rock star. And Wrexall Dupree, the commercial real estate giant founded by his great-grandfather, was his stage. Striding confidently toward the boardroom, past the desks of swooning secretaries, Jackson smiled. He was about to give the performance of his life.
A regular in the gossip columns and New York society press,
It wasn’t all right.
Outside the Senate House, King’s Parade was choked with reporters. Theo Dexter stood on the steps, hand in hand with his wife, holding court. “No, I don’t feel victorious,” he told the
Times
correspondent. “I’m relieved this is over. I’m relieved I can get back to work. I’m heartbroken at the pain I’ve caused my wife.” He looked at Theresa, his eyes welling with tears.
“How do you feel about Sasha Miller?” another journalist shouted. “Will you be pursuing any legal action against her?”
Theo shook his head magnanimously. “I think it’s clear that Miss Miller is a gravely troubled young person. I have no desirefor vengeance. I wish her the best, and I hope her family are able to get her the help she needs.”
As he finished speaking, Sasha emerged from the building, propped up like a drunk between her bewildered parents.
“Are you going to make any statement, Sasha?”
“Will you be going back to St. Michael’s?”
“The university has asked for a formal retraction. Any comment on that?”
“No comment!” Don Miller roared. It was like walking through a pack of wolves. “Get the hell away from my daughter.”
“Are you sorry, Sasha?”
Sasha looked up.
Am I sorry? Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Theo Dexter. I’m sorry I put my family through this. I’m sorry that none of you can open your eyes and see the truth.
The mob followed her to the car. Cameras clattered against the sides of Don’s rickety Volvo as the family drove away. Sasha stared out the window at the colleges, their towers and steeples and portcullises bathed in late-afternoon light. She remembered the day she had first arrived at St. Michael’s, full of hope and promise and excitement, her head full of thoughts of Will Temple, the boy she’d left back home. It was only two years ago. But it felt like a lifetime.
That girl is gone forever
, thought Sasha.
She knew she would never return to Cambridge again.
It was almost midnight before Theo had a chance to call Ed Gilliam. What with all the press to deal with, and the celebratory drinks party at the Masters’ Lodge, followed by a romantic, thank-you-for-standing-by-me supper with Theresa, he hadn’t had a second alone since the verdict.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Gilliam laughed. “Not likely. I’m so wired I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.”
“So come on, put me out of my misery. How did you do it?”
“Harold Grier, you mean?”
“When I saw him after recess I thought we were sunk. How did you get him to change his mind?”
“The same way you get anyone to change their mind. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Money?”
“Better than that. I told him I’d get him a book deal for his new thesis. That and a sponsor for his next five years of research.”
“But Grier’s research is impenetrable. Not even physicists can understand it.”
“Hey, I didn’t say the book would sell. I told him we’d publish it.”
“Who’s going to sponsor him?”
“You are, Theo. Or rather, your TV production company. Once your show gets syndicated globally, believe me, the payments to dear old Harold will be a drop in the ocean.”
“My show? What show?”
Ed Gilliam laughed out loud. “Get some sleep, Theo. You’re about to become a very,
very
busy man.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York, five years later
Jackson Dupree emerged from the elevator like a rock star walking onstage. With good reason. On Wall Street, Jackson Dupree
was
a rock star. And Wrexall Dupree, the commercial real estate giant founded by his great-grandfather, was his stage. Striding confidently toward the boardroom, past the desks of swooning secretaries, Jackson smiled. He was about to give the performance of his life.
A regular in the gossip columns and New York society press,
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