Private Scandals

his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. “You’re all right.”
    “Finn.” She pressed against him, desperate for the feel of his flesh, his warmth, his comfort. “Someone killed Angela. I found her. Finn, I found her.”
    But he was already drawing her away, appalled by the swelling and matted blood on the back of her head. Relief twisted into a dark, keen thirst for revenge. “Who hurt you?”
    “I don’t know.” She burrowed back into his arms. “I didn’t see. They think I did it. Finn, they think I killed her.”
    Over her trembling shoulder he stared stonily at Jenner. “Are you out of your mind?”
    “Miss Reynolds is mistaken. We have no intention of charging her at this time. Nor, in my opinion, in the future.”
    “Then she’s free to go.”
    Jenner rubbed his chin. “Yes. We’ll need her to sign a statement, but we can do it tomorrow. Miss Reynolds, I know you’ve had a shock, and I apologize for having to put you through the questioning. I advise you to go by the hospital, have someone take a look at you.”
    “I’ll take her. Deanna.” Gently Finn eased her back to the chair. “I want you to wait here a minute. I need to talk to Lieutenant Jenner.”
    She clung to his hand. “Don’t leave.”
    “No, just outside the door. Just for a minute. Detective.”
    Jenner followed Finn into the corridor, nodding to a uniform to back off. “She’s had a rough night, Mr. Riley.”
    “I’m aware of that. I don’t want you to add to it.”
    “Neither do I. But certain wheels have to turn. I’ve got a nasty murder, and as far as I can tell, she’s the only witness. You wouldn’t mind telling me where you were tonight?”
    Finn’s eyes cooled. “No, I wouldn’t. I was taping a segment on the South Side. I’d guess I’d have about a dozen witnesses to place me there until about midnight. My driver took me home, dropped me off just after one. I put in a call to 911 at one-twenty.”
    “Why?”
    “Because my house had been trashed. You want to verify that, contact your superior.”
    “I don’t doubt your word, Mr. Riley.” Jenner rubbed his chin again, toying with the timetable. “You said one-twenty?”
    “Give or take a minute. Whoever broke in left a message for Deanna on the bedroom wall. You can check with your associates for details. I’m getting Deanna out of here.”
    “I’ll do that.” Jenner made another note. “Mr. Riley, I’d take her out another way. I wouldn’t want her going through the studio.”
    “Hey, Arnie!” Another plainclothes cop signaled from the studio end of the corridor. “M.E.’s finished here.”
    “Tell him to hang on a minute. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Riley.”
    Saying nothing, Finn turned back into the dressing room. He took off his own coat, pushing Deanna’s limp arms through the sleeves. He didn’t want to waste time looking for hers. “Come on, baby, let’s get out of here.”
    “I want to go home.” She leaned heavily against him as he led her out.
    “No way. I’m taking you to E.R.”
    “Don’t leave me there.”
    “I’m not leaving you.”
    He took the long way around, circumventing the studio, choosing the angled stairs that led to the parking lot. Because he knew what to expect before he opened the door, he kissed her brow, held her by the shoulders.
    “The place is going to be swarming with reporters and Minicams.”
    She squeezed her eyes tight, shivered. “I know. It’s okay.”
    “Just hold on tight to me.”
    “I already am.”
    When he shoved the door open, the flash of klieg lights blinded her. She shielded her eyes and saw nothing but eager bodies rushing toward her, microphones stabbing out like lances and the wide, demanding eye of the camera.
    Questions hurtled at her, making her hunch her shoulders in defense as Finn propelled her through the surging sea of reporters.
    She knew most of them, she realized. Liked most of those she knew. Once upon a time they had competed for stories. Once upon a time she would have been among them, pressing forward, scurrying for that one telling picture, that one mumbled comment.
    Then flying to the news desk to get the item—she was an item now—on the air minutes, even seconds, before the competition.
    But she was no longer the observer. She was the observed. How could she tell them how she felt? How could she tell them what she knew? Her mind was like glass, throbbing from some deadly, high-pitched whine. She thought if she couldn’t have silence,