else in this room would see it, too, would resent that show of pride. The brazen murderess, they’d think. A woman without repentance, without shame. He wished he could feel that way about her. It would make her guilt seem all the more assured, her punishment all the more justified.
But he knew what lay beneath the mask. He’d seen it in those eyes two days before, when they’d gazed out at him through a one-way mirror. Fear, pure and simple. She was terrified.
And she was too proud to show it.
* * *
From the instant Miranda walked into the courtroom, none of it seemed real. Her feet, her legs felt numb. She was actually grateful for the firm grip of the bailiff’s hand around her arm as they stepped in the side door. She caught a kaleidoscopic glimpse of all those faces in the audience—if that’s what you called a courtroom full of spectators. What else could you call them? An audience here to watch her performance, an act in the theater of her life. Half of them had come to hang her; the other half were here to watch. As her gaze slowly swept the room she saw familiar faces. There were her colleagues from the Herald: Managing Editor Jill Vickery, looking every bit the sleek professional, and staff reporters Annie Berenger and Ty Weingardt, both of them dressed à la classic rumpled writer. It was hard to tell that they were—or had been—friends. They all wore such carefully neutral expressions.
As her gaze shifted, she took in a single friendly face in the crowd—old Mr. Lanzo, her next-door neighbor. He was mouthing the words I’m with you, sweetie! She found herself almost smiling back.
Then her gaze shifted again, to settle on Chase Tremain’s stony face. The smile instantly died on her lips. Of all the faces in the room, his was the one that most made her feel like shrinking into some dark, unreachable crevice, anywhere to escape his gaze of judgment. The faces beside him were no less condemning. Evelyn Tremain, dressed in widow’s black, looked like a pale death’s mask. Next to Evelyn was her father, Noah DeBolt, town patriarch, a man who with one steely look could wither the spirit of any who dared offend him. He was now aiming that poisonous gaze at Miranda.
The tug of the bailiff’s hand redirected Miranda toward the defendant’s table. Meekly she sat beside her attorney, who greeted her with a stiff nod. Randall Pelham was Ivy League and impeccably dressed for the part, but all Miranda could think of when she saw his face was how young he looked. He made her feel, at twenty-nine, positively middle-aged. Still, she’d had little choice in the matter. There were only two attorneys in practice on Shepherd’s Island. The other was Les Hardee, a man with experience, a fine reputation and a fee to match. Unfortunately, Hardee’s client list happened to include the names DeBolt and Tremain.
Randall Pelham had no such conflict of interest. He didn’t have many clients, either. As the new kid in town, he was ready and willing to represent anyone, even the local murderess.
She asked softly, “Are we okay, Mr. Pelham?”
“Just let me do the talking. You sit there and look innocent.”
“I am innocent.”
To which Randall Pelham offered no response.
“All rise for His Honor Herbert C. Klimenko,” said the bailiff.
Everyone stood.
The sound of shuffling feet announced the arrival of Judge Klimenko, who creaked behind the bench and sank like a bag of old bones into his chair. He fumbled around in his pockets and finally managed to perch a pair of bifocals on his nose.
“They brought him out of retirement,” someone whispered in the front row. “You know, they say he’s senile.”
“They also say he’s deaf!” shot back Judge Klimenko. With that, he slammed down the gavel. “Court is now in session.”
The hearing convened. She followed her attorney’s advice and let him do the talking. For forty-five minutes she didn’t say a word as two men, one she barely knew, one she knew not at all, argued the question of her freedom. They weren’t here to decide guilt or innocence. That was for the trial. The issue to be settled today was more immediate: should she be set free pending that trial?
The deputy D.A. ticked off a list of reasons the accused should remain incarcerated. Weight of evidence. Danger to the community. Undeniable flight risk. The savage nature of the crime, he declared, pointed to the defendant’s brutal nature. Miranda could not believe that this monster he kept referring to was her. Is that what they all think of me? she wondered, feeling the gaze of the audience on her back. That I’m evil? That I would kill again?
Only when she was asked, twice, to stand for Judge Klimenko’s decision did her attention shift back to the present. Trembling, she rose to her feet and gazed up at the pair of eyes peering down at her over bifocals.
“Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars cash or two hundred thousand dollars secured property.” The gavel slammed down. “Court dismissed.”
Miranda was stunned. Even as the audience milled around behind her, she stood frozen in despair.
“It’s the best I could do,” Pelham whispered.
It might as well have been a million. She would never be able to raise it.
“Come on, Ms. Wood,” said the bailiff. “Time to go back.”
In silence she let herself be escorted across the room, past the gazes of all those prying eyes. Only for a second did she pause, to glance back over her shoulder at Chase Tremain. As their gazes locked she thought she saw, for an instant, a flicker of something she hadn’t seen before. Compassion. Just as quickly, it was gone.
Fighting tears, she turned and followed the bailiff through the side door.
Back to jail.
“That will keep her locked away,” said Evelyn.
“A hundred thousand?” Chase shook his head. “It doesn’t seem out of reach.”
“Not for us, maybe. But for someone like her?” Evelyn snorted. The look of satisfaction on her flawlessly made-up face was not becoming. “No. No, I think Ms. Miranda Wood will be staying right where she belongs. Behind bars.”
“She hasn’t budged an inch,” said Lorne Tibbetts. “We’ve been questioning her for a week straight now and she sticks to that story like glue.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Evelyn. “Facts are facts. She can’t refute them.”
They were sitting outside, on Evelyn’s veranda. At midmorning they’d been driven from the house by the heat; the sun streaming in the windows had turned the rooms into ovens. Chase had forgotten about these hot August days. In his memory, Maine was forever cool, forever immune to the miseries of summer. So much for childhood memories. He poured another glass of iced tea and handed the pitcher over to Tibbetts.
“So what do you think, Lorne?” asked Chase. “You have enough to convict?”
“Maybe. There are holes in the evidence.”
“What holes?” demanded Evelyn.
Chase thought, my sister-in-law is back to her old self again. No more hysterics since that day at the police station. She looked cool and in control, which is how he’d always remembered her from their childhood. Evelyn the ice queen.
“There’s the matter of the fingerprints,” said Tibbetts.
“What do you mean?” asked Chase. “Weren’t they on the knife?”
“That’s the problem. The knife handle was wiped clean. Now, that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Here’s this crime of passion, see? She uses her own knife. Pure impulse. So why does she bother to wipe off the fingerprints?”
“She must be brighter than you think,” Evelyn said, sniffing. “She’s already got you confused.”
“Anyway, it