Guilty—Until Proven Innocent…
Miranda Wood thinks she has seen the last of Richard Tremain, her rich and married ex-lover—until she discovers him stabbed to death in her bed. With her knife.
Miranda is the obvious suspect, and she looks even guiltier when her bail is posted by an anonymous donor. Was this an act of kindness designed to buy her time to clear her name? Or is someone trying to manipulate Miranda and draw her into the dark and secret world of a murdered man, where everybody’s presumed guilty?
With her world falling around her, Miranda is determined to discover who killed Richard. But proving her innocence may become secondary to staying alive.…
Praise for
“Tess Gerritsen is an automatic must-read in my house.”
—Stephen King
“Tess Gerritsen…throws one twist after another until the excitement is almost unbearable.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“Ms. Gerritsen is a master!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Gerritsen’s romances are thrillers from beginning to end.”
—Portland Press Herald
“Tess Gerritsen brings us action, adventure and compelling romance.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Riveting…Gerritsen knows how to fashion credible, dimensional characters.”
—Los Angeles Times
Dear Reader,
Years ago, when I was a doctor in training, one of my patients handed me a paper sack and said, “I’ve finished reading these. You might enjoy them.” Inside that sack were a dozen romance novels, a genre that I had never before read—and had no intention of reading. I was a mystery and science fiction reader, and I was working eighty hours a week in the hospital, with scarcely enough time to eat and sleep. But I couldn’t resist taking a peek at one of those romance novels. A few pages in, I was hooked. Within a week, I’d devoured every one of those books.
I’ve been a fan of the genre ever since.
So it’s not surprising that the first suspense novels I wrote were also love stories in which danger meets desire, and hearts—as well as lives—are at stake.
I’m now considered a crime thriller author, and many of my mystery readers are surprised to discover that I once wrote romantic suspense. But I assure you, in these early novels you’ll find many of the thrills and chills that I’ve since become known for.
I’m delighted that Harlequin MIRA is rereleasing my romantic thrillers. These are the stories that laid the foundation for my career as a crime novelist. I hope you enjoy them!
Tess Gerritsen
To Terrina and Mike, with aloha
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
One
He called at ten o’clock, 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 don’t have to answer it. I don’t have to talk to him. I don’t 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 she’d meant what she told him.
The renewed jangling made her start. Every ring was like sandpaper scraping across her raw nerves.
Miranda couldn’t 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 don’t want you to call me anymore,” she said.
“I couldn’t help it. All day I’ve wanted to call you. Miranda, it’s been hell without you.”
Tears stung her eyes. She took a breath, forcing them back.
“Can’t we try again?” he pleaded.
“No, Richard.”
“Please. This time it’ll be different.”
“It’ll 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 won’t 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 didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” he asked. “I told her. Everything about us. And I’ve been to see my lawyer. I’ve changed the terms of my—”
“Richard,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t make a difference. Whether you’re married or divorced, I don’t want to see you.”
“Just one more time.”
“No.”
“I’m coming over. Right now—”
“No.”
“You have to see me, Miranda!”
“I don’t have to do anything!” she cried.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Miranda stared in disbelief at the receiver. He’d hung up. Damn him, he’d hung up, and fifteen minutes from now he’d be knocking on her door. She’d 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 he’d rip away her mask of control and there they’d be again, spiraling into the same old trap she’d just managed to crawl out of.
She ran to the closet and yanked out a sweatshirt. She had to get away. Somewhere he wouldn’t 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 didn’t 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, bobbin
g in the fog.
By now he would be at her house. She wondered how long he’d knock at the door. Whether he’d keep knocking until her neighbor Mr. Lanzo complained. Whether he’d 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 he’d 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. Hasn’t 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 she’d 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. I’ve paid for it, in pain. Now it’s his turn.
She left the car and headed purposefully to her house. She climbed the porch steps; the front door was unlocked, as she’d left it. Inside, the lights were still on. He wasn’t 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, didn’t 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. “It’s 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 she’d have to contend with. He’d be sprawled on her bed, naked, a grin on his face. That was the way he’d greeted her the last time. This time she’d toss him out, clothes or no clothes. This time he’d be in for a surprise.
The bedroom was dark. She switched on the lights.
He was sprawled on the bed, as she’d predicted. His arms were flung out, his legs tangled in the sheets. And he was naked. But it wasn’t 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 chef’s knife lying nearby on the floor. She didn’t 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 hadn’t bothered to soften the blow. He had scarcely registered the fact it was his sister-in-law’s 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, she’d told him. Murdered. By a woman....
And then, in the next breath, I need you, Chase.
He hadn’t expected that part. Chase was the outsider, the Tremain no one ever bothered to call, the one who’d 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 Richard’s true nature.
Murdered. By a woman.
That part Chase found entirely unsurprising.
He wondered who she was, what could have ignited an anger so white-hot it had driven her to plunge a knife into his brother’s chest. Oh, he could make an educated guess. An affair turned sour. Jealousy over some new mistress. The inevitable abandonment. And then rage, at being used, at being lied to, a rage that would have overwhelmed all sense of logic or self-preservation. Chase could sketch in the whole scenario. He could even picture the woman, a woman like all the others who’d drifted through Richard’s life. She’d be attractive, of course. Richard would insist on that much. But there’d be something a little desperate about her. Perhaps her laugh would be too loud or her smile too automatic, or the lines around her eyes would reveal a woman on the downhill slide. Yes, he could see the woman clearly, and the image stirred both pity and repulsion.
And rage. Whatever resentment he still bore Richard, nothing could change the fact they were brothers. They’d shared the same pool of memories, the same lazy afternoons drifting on the lake, the strolls on the breakwater, the quiet snickerings in the darkness. Their last falling-out had been a serious one, but in the back of his mind Chase had always assumed they’d smooth it over. There was always time to make things right again, to be friends again.
That’s what he had thought until that phone call from Evelyn.
His anger swelled, washed through him like a full-moon tide. Opportunities lost. No more chances to say, I care about you. No more chances to
say, Remember when? The road blurred before him. He blinked and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
He drove on, into the morning.
By ten o’clock he had reached Bass Harbor. By eleven he was aboard the Jenny B, his face to the wind, his hands clutching the ferry rail. In the distance, Shepherd’s Island rose in a low green hump in the mist. Jenny B’s bow heaved across the swells and Chase felt that familiar nausea roil his stomach, sour his throat. Always the seasick one, he thought. In a family of sailors, Chase was the landlubber, the son who preferred solid ground beneath his feet. The racing trophies had all gone to Richard. Catboats, sloops, you name the class, Richard had the trophy. And these were the waters where he’d honed his skills, tacking, jibbing, shouting out orders. Spinnaker up, spinnaker down. To Chase it had all seemed a bunch of frantic nonsense. And then, there’d been that miserable nausea....
Chase inhaled a deep breath of salt air, felt his stomach settle as the Jenny B pulled up to the dock. He returned to the car and waited his turn to drive up the ramp. There were eight cars before him, out-of-state license plates on every one. Half of Massachusetts seemed to come north every summer. You could almost hear the state of Maine groan under the the weight of all those damn cars.
The ferryman waved him forward. Chase put the car in gear and drove up the ramp, onto Shepherd’s Island.
It amazed him how little the place seemed to change over the years. The same old buildings faced Sea Street: the Island Bakery, the bank, FitzGerald’s Café, the five-and-dime, Lappin’s General Store. A few new names had sprung up in old places. The Vogue Beauty Shop was now Gorham’s Books, and Village Hardware had been replaced by Country Antiques and a realty office. Lord, what changes the tourists wrought.
He drove around the corner, up Limerock Street. On his left, housed in the same brick building, was the Island Herald. He wondered if any of it had changed inside. He remembered it well, the decorative tin ceiling, the battered desks, the wall hung with portraits of the publishers, every one a Tremain. He could picture it all, right down to the Remington typewriter on his father’s old desk. Of course, the Remingtons would be long gone. There’d be computers now, sleek and impersonal. That’s how Richard would run the newspaper, anyway. Out with the old, in with the new.