TESS GERRITSEN
PRESUMED GUILTY
To Terrina and Mike, with aloha
One
He called at ten oclock, the same time he always did.
Even before Miranda answered it, she knew it was him. She also knew that if she ignored it the phone would keep on ringing and ringing, until the sound would drive her crazy. Miranda paced the bedroom, thinking, I dont have to answer it. I dont have to talk to him. I dont owe him a thing, not a damn thing.
The ringing stopped. In the sudden silence she held her breath, hoping that this time he would relent, this time he would understand shed meant what she told him.
The renewed jangling made her start. Every ring was like sandpaper scraping across her raw nerves.
Miranda couldnt stand it any longer. Even as she picked up the receiver she knew it was a mistake. Hello?
I miss you, he said. It was the same whisper, resonant with the undertones of old intimacies shared, enjoyed.
I dont want you to call me anymore, she said.
I couldnt help it. All day Ive wanted to call you. Miranda, its been hell without you.
Tears stung her eyes. She took a breath, forcing them back.
Cant we try again? he pleaded.
No, Richard.
Please. This time itll be different.
Itll never be different.
Yes! It will
It was a mistake. From the very beginning.
You still love me. I know you do. God, Miranda, all these weeks, seeing you every day. Not being able to touch you. Or even be alone with you
You wont have to deal with that any longer, Richard. You have my letter of resignation. I meant it.
There was a long silence, as though the impact of her words had pummeled him like some physical blow. She felt euphoric and guilty all at once. Guilty for having broken free, for being, at last, her own woman.
Softly he said, I told her.
Miranda didnt respond.
Did you hear me? he asked. I told her. Everything about us. And Ive been to see my lawyer. Ive changed the terms of my
Richard, she said slowly. It doesnt make a difference. Whether youre married or divorced, I dont want to see you.
Just one more time.
No.
Im coming over. Right now
No.
You have to see me, Miranda!
I dont have to do anything! she cried.
Ill be there in fifteen minutes.
Miranda stared in disbelief at the receiver. Hed hung up. Damn him, hed hung up, and fifteen minutes from now hed be knocking on her door. Shed managed to carry on so bravely these past three weeks, working side by side with him, keeping her smile polite, her voice neutral. But now he was coming and hed rip away her mask of control and there theyd be again, spiraling into the same old trap shed just managed to crawl out of.
She ran to the closet and yanked out a sweatshirt. She had to get away. Somewhere he wouldnt find her, somewhere she could be alone.
She fled out the front door and down the porch steps and began to walk, swiftly, fiercely, down Willow Street. At ten-thirty, the neighborhood was already tucked in for the night. Through the windows she passed she saw the glow of lamplight, the silhouettes of families in various domestic poses, the occasional flicker of a fire in a hearth. She felt that old envy stir inside her again, the longing to be part of the same loving whole, to be stirring the embers of her own hearth. Foolish dreams.
Shivering, she hugged her arms to her chest. There was a chill in the air, not unseasonable for August in Maine. She was angry now, angry about being cold, about being driven from her own home. Angry at him. But she didnt stop; she kept walking.
At Bayview Street she turned right, toward the sea.
The mist was rolling in. It blotted out the stars, crept along the road in a sullen vapor. She headed through it, the fog swirling in her wake. From the road she turned onto a footpath, followed it to a series of granite steps, now slick with mist. At the bottom was a wood bench she thought of it as her bench set on the beach of stones. There she sat, drew her legs up against her chest and stared out toward the sea. Somewhere, drifting on the bay, a buoy was clanging. She could dimly make out the green channel light, bobbing in the fog.
By now he would be at her house. She wondered how long hed knock at the door. Whether hed keep knocking until her neighbor Mr. Lanzo complained. Whether hed give up and just go home, to his wife, to his son and daughter.
She lowered her face against her knees, trying to blot out the image of the happy little Tremain family. Happy was not the picture Richard had painted. At the breaking point was the way hed described his marriage. It was love for Phillip and Cassie, his children, that had kept him from divorcing Evelyn years ago. Now the twins were nineteen, old enough to accept the truth about their parents marriage. What stopped him from divorce now was his concern for Evelyn, his wife. She needed time to adjust, and if Miranda would just be patient, would just love him enough, the way he loved her, it would all work out.
Oh, yes. Hasnt it worked out just fine?
Miranda gave a little laugh. She raised her head, looked out to sea and laughed again, not a hysterical laugh but one of relief. She felt as if shed just awakened from a long fever, to find that her mind was sharp again, clear again. The mist felt good against her face, its chill touch sweeping her soul clean. How she needed such a cleansing! The months of guilt had piled up like layers of dirt, until she thought she could scarcely see herself, her real self, beneath the filth.
Now it was over. This time it was really, truly over.
She smiled at the sea. My soul is mine again, she thought. A calmness, a serenity she had not felt in months, settled over her. She rose to her feet and started for home.
Two blocks from her house she spotted the blue Peugeot, parked near the intersection of Willow and Spring Streets. So he was still waiting for her. She paused by the car, gazing in at the black leather upholstery, the sheepskin seat covers, all of it too familiar. The scene of the crime, she thought. The first kiss. Ive paid for it, in pain. Now its his turn.
She left the car and headed purposefully to her house. She climbed the porch steps; the front door was unlocked, as shed left it. Inside, the lights were still on. He wasnt in the living room.
Richard? she said.
No answer.
The smell of coffee brewing drew her to the kitchen. She saw a fresh pot on the burner, a half-filled mug on the countertop. One of the kitchen drawers had been left wide open. She slammed it shut. Well. You came right in and made yourself at home, didnt you? She grabbed the mug and tossed the contents into the sink. The coffee splashed her hand; it was barely lukewarm.
She moved along the hall, past the bathroom. The light was on, and water trickled from the faucet. She shut it off. You have no right to come in here! she yelled. Its my house. I could call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.
She turned toward the bedroom. Even before she reached the doorway she knew what to expect, knew what shed have to contend with. Hed be sprawled on her bed, naked, a grin on his face. That was the way hed greeted her the last time. This time shed toss him out, clothes or no clothes. This time hed be in for a surprise.
The bedroom was dark. She switched on the lights.
He was sprawled on the bed, as shed predicted. His arms were flung out, his legs tangled in the sheets. And he was naked. But it wasnt a grin she saw on his face. It was a frozen look of terror, the mouth thrown open in a silent scream, the eyes staring at some fearful image of eternity. A corner of the bed sheet, saturated with blood, sagged over the side. Except for the quiet tap, tap of the crimson liquid slowly dripping onto the floor, the room was silent.
Miranda managed to take two steps into the room before nausea assailed her. She dropped to her knees, gasping, retching. Only when she managed to raise her head again did she see the chefs knife lying nearby on the floor. She didnt have to look twice at it. She recognized the handle, the twelve-inch steel blade, and she knew exactly where it had come from: the kitchen drawer.
It was her knife; it would have her fingerprints on it.
And now it was steeped in blood.
Chase Tremain drove straight through the night and into the dawn. The rhythm of the road under his wheels, the glow of the dashboard lights, the radio softly scratching out some Muzak melody all receded to little more than the fuzzy background of a dream a very bad dream. The only reality was what he kept telling himself as he drove, what he repeated over and over in his head as he pushed onward down that dark highway.
Richard is dead. Richard is dead.
He was startled to hear himself say the words aloud. Briefly it shook him from his trancelike state, the sound of those words uttered in the darkness of his car. He glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning. He had been driving for four hours now. The New Hampshire-Maine border lay ahead. How many hours to go? How many miles? He wondered if it was cold outside, if the air smelled of the sea. The car had become a sensory deprivation box, a self-contained purgatory of glowing green lights and elevator music. He switched off the radio.
Richard is dead.
He heard those words again, mentally replayed them from the hazy memory of that phone call. Evelyn hadnt bothered to soften the blow. He had scarcely registered the fact it was his sister-in-laws voice calling when she hit him with the news. No preambles, no are-you-sitting-down warnings. Just the bare facts, delivered in the familiar Evelyn half whisper. Richard is dead, shed told him. Murdered. By a woman.
And then, in the next breath, I need you, Chase.
He hadnt expected that part. Chase was the outsider, the Tremain no one ever bothered to call, the one whod picked up and left the state, left the family, for good. The brother with the embarrassing past. Chase, the outcast. Chase, the black sheep.
Chase, the weary, he thought, shaking off the cobwebs of sleep that threatened to ensnare him. He opened the window, inhaled the rush of cold air, the scent of pines and sea. The smell of Maine. It brought back, like nothing else could, all those boyhood memories. Scrabbling across the beach rocks, ankle deep in seaweed. The freshly gathered mussels clattering together in his bucket. The foghorn, moaning through the mist. All of it came back to him in that one whiff of air, that perfume of childhood, of good times, the early days when he had thought Richard was the boldest, the cleverest, the very best brother anyone could have. The days before he had understood Richards true nature.