Тесс Герритсен - Presumed Guilty стр 18.

She raised her head again, her gaze drawing level to his. The tears shed 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 mans 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 didnt 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 hadnt 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.

II 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 weve no more work to do?

At once everyone redirected their attention to their jobs.

Jill looked at Miranda. Ive already taken the liberty of cleaning out your desk. Its all in a box downstairs.

Miranda was so grateful for Jills simple civility she scarcely registered annoyance that her desk had been coldbloodedly emptied of her belongings. She said, Ive also a few things in my locker.

They should still be there. No ones 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 didnt run.

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

It just does.

Jill shrugged. It was Richards decision. He pulled the story.

Richards? But he was working on it for months.

Richards? But he was working on it for months.

I cant tell you his reasons. I dont know them. He just pulled it. And anyway, I dont think he ever wrote the story.

But he told me it was nearly finished.

Ive 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 womens 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. Youre 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.

Im 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. Cant think in those stupid high heels. Cuts the blood supply to my brain. She finished lacing up her running shoe. So whats going to happen next? With you, I mean.

I dont 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 dont know who it was.

You must have an idea. Or is this your lawyers advice, to plead ignorance?

Miranda gripped the locker door. Dont, Annie. Please.

Annie cocked her head, revealing all the lines and freckles of too many summers in the sun. Im being a jerk, arent I? Sorry. Its just that Jill assigned me to the trial. I dont 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?