Homeport

Miranda.”
    “I intend to.” She dropped her hands. “I will.”
    “Hawthorne’s made a mistake. Now we’ll see if he—or someone else—makes another one. When I have the bronzes, we’ll give him to the cops. I have a feeling he won’t want to hang alone.”
    She jumped to her feet. “Hang.”
    “It’s an expression.”
    “But—prison or worse. That’s what this means. Years, even a lifetime in prison or . . . If it’s one of my family, if it’s one of them, Ryan, I can’t. No, I can’t handle it. I was wrong.”
    “Miranda—” He reached for her hands, but she tossed them up in panic.
    “No, no, I’m sorry. It’s not right, I know it’s not right. Giovanni, and that poor man with his wife, his children, but . . . if we find out it’s one of them, I don’t know if I can live with knowing I helped put them behind bars.”
    “Just a damn minute.” He grabbed onto her before she could evade, surprising them both with the quick and hot spurt of temper. “Whoever’s responsible for this put your life on the line. I’m going to see that they pay for that too.”
    “No, not my life. My reputation, the momentum of my career.”
    “Who hired that son of a bitch to terrorize you with a knife? Who’s been sending you faxes to frighten you, to hurt you?”
    “It must have been Richard.” Misery swamped her eyes. “And if it wasn’t, I can’t be responsible for sending one of my family to prison.”
    “What’s your alternative? To let them walk? To leave The Dark Lady wherever she is, destroy that book, forget what’s been done?”
    “I don’t know. But I need time too. You asked for forty-eight hours. I’m asking you to give me the same. There has to be a middle ground. Somewhere.”
    “I don’t think so.” He picked up the book, balancing it on his palm as if weighing it. Then he held it out. “You take it, keep it.”
    She stared at it, taking it gingerly as if the leather would burn. “How am I going to get through the rest of the day? Through tonight?”
    “With that Yankee spine of yours? You’ll do just fine. I’ll be with you. We’re in this together.”
    She nodded, put the book in a drawer and locked it. Forty-eight hours, she thought. That was all the time she had to decide whether to make the book public, or to burn it.
     
    It’s going to be perfect. I know exactly how it will work now. It’s all in place. Miranda put it all in place for me. All those people will be there, admiring the great art, sliding champagne down their throats, stuffing all the pretty canapés in their mouths. She’ll move among them, gracious and cool. The brilliant Dr. Jones. The perfect Dr. Jones.
    The doomed Dr. Jones.
    She’ll be her own centerpiece, basking in the compliments. A brilliant exhibition, Dr. Jones. A glorious display. Oh yes, they’ll say it, and they’ll think it, and the mistakes she made, the embarrassment she caused will fade into the background. As if all my work was nothing.
    Her star’s rising again.
    Tonight, it falls.
    I’ve planned my own exhibit for tonight, one that will overshadow hers. I’ve titled it Death of a Traitor.
    I believe the reviews will be very strong.

twenty-eight
    N o one knew her stomach was alive with manic butterflies wielding tiny scythes. Her hands were cool and steady, her smile easy. Inside her mind she could see herself jittering with every step, stuttering through every conversation. But the shield was up, the unflappable Dr. Jones firmly in place.
    She’d chosen to wear a long column of midnight blue with a high banded collar and sleeves that ended in narrow cuffs. She was grateful for the amount of flesh it covered, because she felt cold, so cold. She hadn’t been warm since Ryan had given her the book.
    She watched her mother, elegant as an empress in a gown of petal pink, working the crowd—a touch on the arm there, an offered hand or cheek. Always the right thing to say at the right time to the right person.
    Her husband was beside her, of course, dashing in his tuxedo, the well-traveled adventurer with the interesting air of a scholar. How handsome they looked together, how perfect the Joneses of Jones Point appeared on the surface. Not a flaw to mar the polish. And no substance beneath the gloss.

    How smoothly they worked as a team when they chose, she thought. They would choose for the Institute, for art, for the Jones reputation as they had never chosen for family.
    She wanted to hate them for it, but