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Presumed Guilty
Tess Gerritsen
Guilty – until proven innocentMiranda Wood arrives home to a dark, cold cottage – and a man, stabbed to death, lying in her bed. Miranda is the obvious suspect, and she looks even guiltier when her bail is paid by an anonymous donor.As Miranda fights to clear her name, she unearths a murky history of blackmail, corruption and scandal. As she gets closer to the truth, it becomes clear that someone else wants to kill Miranda – someone with a personal reason for wanting her out of the way…“Gerritsen is tops in her genre. ” USA Today

Also available by Tess Gerritsen

IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS
UNDER THE KNIFE
CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT
NEVER SAY DIE
STOLEN
WHISTLEBLOWER
MURDER & MAYHEM COLLECTION

Dear Readers,

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. 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 eight suspense novels I wrote were also love stories in which danger meets desire, and hearts – as well as lives – are at stake. Along with the romance, you’ll find the same thrills and chills, the same twisting plots that I’ve become known for in my later crime novels.

I’m delighted that MIRA is re-releasing my romantic thrillers, and I hope you enjoy them!

Tess Gerritsen

PRESUMED GUILTY
TESS GERRITSEN

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To Terrina and Mike, with aloha
CHAPTER 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’thave to talk to him. I don’t owe him a thing, not adamn 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, bobbing 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 thebreaking 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 athome, 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 awoman….
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. JennyB’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.
Bring on the next Tremain.
Chase drove on and turned onto Chestnut Hill. Half a mile up, near the highest point on the island, sat the Tremain mansion. A monstrous yellow wedding cake was what it used to remind him of, with its Victorian turrets and gingerbread trim. The house had since been repainted a distinguished gray and white. It seemed tamer now, subdued, a faded beauty. Chase almost preferred the old wedding-cake yellow.
He parked the car, grabbed his suitcase from the trunk and headed up the walkway. Even before he’d reached the porch steps the door opened and Evelyn was standing there, waiting for him.
“Chase!” she cried. “Oh, Chase, you’re here. Thank God you’re here.”
At once she fell into his arms. Automatically he held her against him, felt the shuddering of her body, the warmth of her breath against his neck. He let her cling to him as long as she needed to.
At last she pulled away and gazed up at him. Those brilliant green eyes were as startling as ever. Her hair, shoulder length and honey blond, had been swept back into a French braid. Her face was puffy, her nose red and pinched. She’d tried to cover it with makeup. Some sort of pink powder caked her nostril and a streak of mascara had left a dirty shadow on her cheek. He could scarcely believe this was his beautiful sis ter-in-law. Could it be she truly was in mourning?
“I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
“I left right after you called.”
“Thank you, Chase. I didn’t know who else to turn to….” She stood back, looked at him. “Poor thing, you must be exhausted. Come in, I’ll get you some coffee.”
They stepped into the foyer. It was like stepping back into childhood, so little had changed. The same oak floors, the same light, the same smells. He almost thought that if he turned around and looked through the doorway into the parlor, he’d see his mother sitting there at her desk, madly scribbling away. The old girl never did take to the typewriter; she’d believed, and rightly so, that if a gossip column was juicy enough, an editor would accept it in Swahili. As it turned out, not only had the editor acquired her column, he’d acquired her as well. All in all, a practical marriage.
His mother never did learn to type.
“Hello, Uncle Chase.”
Chase looked up to see a young man and woman standing at the top of the stairs. Those couldn’t be the twins! He watched in astonishment as the pair came down the steps, Phillip in the lead. The last time he’d seen his niece and nephew they’d been gawky adolescents, not quite grown into their big feet. Both of them were tall and blond and lean, but there the resemblance ended. Phillip moved with the graceful assurance of a dancer, an elegant Fred Astaire partnered with—well, certainly not Ginger Rogers. The young woman who ambled down after him bore a closer resemblance to a horse.
“I can’t believe this is Cassie and Phillip,” said Chase.
“You’ve stayed away too long,” Evelyn replied.
Phillip came forward and shook Chase’s hand. It was the greeting of a stranger, not a nephew. His hand was slender, refined, the hand of a gentleman. He had his mother’s stamp of aristocracy—straight nose, chiseled cheeks, green eyes. “Uncle Chase,” he said somberly. “It’s a terrible reason to come home, but I’m glad you’re here.”
Chase shifted his gaze to Cassie. When he’d last seen his niece she was a lively little monkey with a never-ending supply of questions. He could scarcely believe she’d grown into this sullen young woman. Could grief have wrought such changes? Her limp hair was pulled back so tightly it seemed to turn her face into a collection of jutting angles: large nose, rabbity overbite, a square forehead unsoftened by even a trace of bangs. Only her eyes held any trace of that distant ten-year-old. They were direct, sharply intelligent.
“Hello, Uncle Chase,” she said. A strikingly businesslike tone for a girl who’d just lost her father.
“Cassie,” said Evelyn. “Can’t you give your uncle a kiss? He’s come all this way to be with us.”
Cassie moved forward and planted a wooden peck on Chase’s cheek. Just as quickly she stepped back, as though embarrassed by this false ceremony of affection.
“You’ve certainly grown up,” said Chase, the most charitable assessment he could offer.
“Yes. It happens.”
“How old are you now?”
“Almost twenty.”
“So you both must be in college.”
Cassie nodded, the first trace of a smile touching her lips. “I’m at the University of Southern Maine. Studying journalism. I figured, one of these days the Herald’s going to need a—”
“Phillip’s at Harvard,” Evelyn cut in. “Just like his father.”
Cassie’s smile died before it was fully born. She shot a look of irritation at her mother, then turned and headed up the stairs.
“Cassie, where are you going?”
“I have to do my laundry.”
“But your uncle just got here. Come back and sit with us.”
“Why, Mother?” she shot back over her shoulder. “You can entertain him perfectly well on your own.”
“Cassie!”
The girl turned and glared down at Evelyn. “What?”
“You are embarrassing me.”
“Well, that’s nothing new.”
Evelyn, close to tears, turned to Chase. “You see how things are? I can’t even count on my own children. Chase, I can’t deal with this all alone. I just can’t.” Stifling a sob, she turned and walked into the parlor.
The twins looked at each other.
“You’ve done it again,” said Phillip. “It’s a lousy time to fight, Cassie. Can’t you feel sorry for her? Can’t you try and get along? Just for the next few days.”
“It’s not as if I don’t try. But she drives me up a wall.”
“Okay, then at least be civil.” He paused, then added, “You know it’s what Dad would want.”
Cassie sighed. Then, resignedly, she came down the steps and headed into the parlor, after her mother. “I guess I owe him that much….”
Shaking his head, Phillip looked at Chase. “Just another episode of the delightful Tremain family.”
“Has it been like this for a while?”
“Years, at least. You’re just seeing them at their worst. You’d think, after last night, after losing Dad, we could pull together. Instead it seems to be driving us all apart.”
They went into the parlor and found mother and daughter sitting at opposite ends of the room. Both had regained their composure. Phillip took a seat between them, reinforcing his role as perpetual human buffer. Chase settled into a corner armchair—his idea of neutral territory.
Sunshine washed in through the bay windows, onto the gleaming wood floor. The silence was filled by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. It all looked the same, thought Chase. The same Hepplewhite tables, the same Queen Anne chairs. It was exactly the way he remembered it from childhood. Evelyn had not altered a single detail. For that he felt grateful.
Chase launched a foray into that dangerous silence. “I drove by the newspaper building, coming through town,” he said. “Hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Neither has the town,” said Phillip.
“Just as thrilling as ever,” his sister deadpanned.
“What’s the plan for the Herald?” asked Chase.
“Phillip will be taking over,” said Evelyn. “It’s about time, anyway. I need him home, now that Richard…” She swallowed, looked down. “He’s ready for the job.”
“I’m not sure I am, Mom,” said Phillip. “I’m only in my second year at college. And there are other things I’d like to—”
“Your father was twenty when Grandpa Tremain made him an editor. Isn’t that right, Chase?”
Chase nodded.
“So there’s no reason you couldn’t slip right onto the masthead.”
Phillip shrugged. “Jill Vickery’s managing things just fine.”
“She’s just a hired hand, Phillip. The Herald needs a real captain.”
Cassie leaned forward, her eyes suddenly sharp. “There are others who could do it,” she said. “Why does it have to be Phil?”
“Your father wanted Phillip. And Richard always knew what was best for the Herald.”
There was a silence, punctuated by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Evelyn let out a shaky breath and dropped her head in her hands. “Oh, God, it all seems so cold-blooded. I can’t believe we’re talking about this. About who’s going to take his place….”
“Sooner or later,” said Cassie, “we have to talk about it. About a lot of things.”
Evelyn nodded and looked away.
In another room, the phone was ringing.
“I’ll get it,” said Phillip, and left to answer it.
“I just can’t think,” said Evelyn, pressing her hands to her head. “If I could just get my mind working again….”
“It was only last night,” said Chase gently. “It takes time to get over the shock.”
“And there’s the funeral to think of. They won’t even tell me when they’ll release the—” She winced. “I don’t see why it takes so long. Why the state examiner has to go over and over it. I mean, can’t they see what happened? Isn’t it obvious?”
“The obvious isn’t always the truth,” said Cassie.
Evelyn looked at her daughter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Phillip came back into the room. “Mom? That was Lorne Tibbetts on the phone.”
“Oh, Lord.” Evelyn rose unsteadily to her feet. “I’m coming.”
“He wants to see you in person.”
She frowned. “Right this minute? Can’t it wait?”
“You might as well get it over with, Mom. He’ll have to talk to you sooner or later.”
Evelyn turned and looked at Chase. “I can’t do this alone. Come with me, won’t you?”
Chase didn’t have the faintest idea where they were going or who Lorne Tibbetts was. At that moment what he really wanted was a hot shower and a bed to collapse onto. But that would have to wait.
“Of course, Evelyn,” he said. Reluctantly he stood, shaking the stiffness from his legs, which felt permanently flexed by the long drive from Greenwich.
Evelyn was already reaching for her purse. She pulled out the car keys and handed them to Chase. “I—I’m too upset to drive. Could you?”
He took the keys. “Where are we going?”
With shaking hands Evelyn slipped on her sunglasses. The swollen eyes vanished behind twin dark lenses. “The police,” she said.

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