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words out while Miranda stared up at him.
    And there had been something like loathing in her eyes.
    He closed his own. It was all right, he could control it. Maybe he’d stepped over a line the night before, but he wouldn’t do it again. He’d take a couple of days off from drinking, prove to everyone he could. It was the stress, that was all. He had reason to be stressed.
    He downed some aspirin, pretended his hands weren’t shaking. When he dropped the bottle and pills spilled out on the tile, he left them there. He walked out, carrying his sickness with him.
    He found Miranda in her office, dressed casually in a sweater and leggings, her hair bundled on top of her head and her posture perfect as she worked at her computer.

    It took him more time than he cared to admit to gather the courage to step inside. But when he did, she glanced over, then quickly clicked her data to save and blanked the screen.
    “Good morning.” She knew her voice was frigid, but couldn’t find the will to warm it. “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I’m sure you are. You may want to put ice on that eye.”
    “What do you want from me? I said I’m sorry. I had too much to drink. I embarrassed you, I acted like an idiot. It won’t happen again.”
    “Won’t it?”
    “No.” The fact that she didn’t give an inch infuriated him. “I went past my limit, that’s all.”
    “One drink is past your limit, Andrew. Until you accept that, you’re going to continue to embarrass yourself, to hurt yourself and the people who care about you.”
    “Look, while you’ve been off having your little fling with Boldari, I’ve been here, up to my ears, dealing with business. And part of that business is your screwup in Florence.”
    Very slowly, she got to her feet. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You heard me, Miranda. I’m the one who’s had to listen to our mother and our father complain and bitch about the mess with that bronze of yours. And I’m the one who spent days looking for the goddamn documents on the David —that you were in charge of. I’m taking the heat for that too because you’re out of it. You can waltz off and spend your time fucking some—”
    The crack of her hand across his face shocked them both, left them staring and breathless. She curled her fingers into her stinging palm, pressed it to her heart, and turned away from him.
    He stood where he was, wondering why the new apology that ached in his heart couldn’t be forced out of his mouth. So, saying nothing at all, he turned and walked out.
    She heard the slam of the front door moments later, then looking out the window, saw his car drive off.
    All of her life, he’d been her rock. And now, she thought, because she simply wasn’t capable of enough compassion, she’d struck out when he needed her. And she’d pushed him away.
    She didn’t know if she had it in her to pull him back.
    Her fax phone rang, then picked up the transmission with its high-pitched squeal. Rubbing the tension out of the back of her neck, Miranda walked over as the message slid into the tray.
Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you enjoy Florence, Miranda? The spring flowers and the warm sunshine? I know where you go. I know what you do. I know what you think. I’m right there, inside your mind, all the time.
You killed Giovanni. His blood’s on your hands.
Can you see it?
I can.
    With a sound of fury, Miranda crushed the paper into a ball, heaved it across the room. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, waiting for the red haze that was fury and fear to fade. When it had, she walked over calmly, picked up the paper, smoothed it out with great care.
    And put it neatly into the drawer.
     
    Ryan came back with an armload of daffodils so bright and sunny she couldn’t do anything but smile. But because it didn’t reach her eyes, he tipped up her chin.
    “What?”
    “It’s nothing, they’re wonderful.”
    “What?” he repeated, and watched her struggle to overcome her habitual reluctance to share trouble.
    “Andrew and I had a scene. He left. I don’t know where he’s gone, and I know there’s nothing I can do about it.”
    “You have to let him find his own level, Miranda.”
    “I know that too. I need to put these in water.” On impulse she picked up her grandmother’s favored rose medallion vase, and taking it to the kitchen, busied herself arranging the flowers on the kitchen table. “I’ve made some progress, I think,” she told him.