***
Megan Vandermeer lay in a sedated haze, content to neither move nor think. When she did move, she hurt all over, which was strange. She hadn’t hurt so much before. The doctors said that the healing process was taking over, that nerve ends were screeching their way back to life, and she accepted the explanation mainly because she didn’t have the will to argue.
Besides, she didn’t mind the pain. She deserved it.
But she didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think, period. Thinking was more painful than moving. All she wanted to do was lie in her bed and tune out reality.
Unfortunately, the world wouldn’t let her do that. Since she’d woken up, there had been a steady stream of people passing through her room—doctors, nurses, counselors, detectives, agents—all with questions that she didn’t want to answer.
Why didn’t they leave her alone? she wondered. Couldn’t they see that she didn’t feel well? Couldn’t they see that she didn’t want to talk?
All their questions blurred together in her mind.What do you remember? Does it hurt here? Can you give us a description? Were you taken in a car? Where did they hold you? How about a nice, soft-boiled egg? Were there any sounds in the room? Did they call each other by name? Would you like another bath?
With a soft moan, she turned her head on the pillow in an attempt to blot out the noise.
“Meggie?”
Frightened by the voice that was so much more real, so much nearer than the others, she quickly opened her eyes and saw Will. He was sitting close by the side of the bed and was the only person in the room.
“You were moaning,” he said. “Is the pain worse? Should I call a nurse?”
Oh yes, the pain was worse. Each time she looked at him it intensified. Her heart ached. She loved Will. But he looked awful. He had been home for a little while, she knew, and had come back showered, shaved, and wearing fresh clothes. But the shave had only accentuated the pallor of his skin, and in contrast to the fresh clothes, he looked more tired than ever. He was forty-nine years old. In the six years they had been married, she had prided herself on keeping him young. Now, though, he looked every bit his age. He looked worn—and it was all her fault.
What had she done to him?
She had fallen in love and married him, which was just fine for her, but not for him. He could have done better. If he’d married someone from his own social station, he would have had the support he needed. If he’d married a wealthy woman, none of this would have happened.
She was a liability.
“Meggie?” His voice wavered. Very lightly, tentatively, he took her hand, and she let him, not because she was doing him a favor, or because she deserved the comfort, but because she needed his touch.
Selfish. She was selfish. And dirty. The bruises on her body were stains that would never go away.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?”
Closing her eyes, she shook her head, then turned it away on the pillow. Will continued to hold her hand, but he didn’t speak, and she was glad. What could he say? What could she say back? She needed time to figure out what to do.
Savannah hadn’t talked much, either. She had been in to visit earlier, standing by the bed for several minutes. She had softly called her name, but Megan hadn’t opened her eyes or answered. She was a coward. After all Savannah had done, not only in the past three days but over the years, Megan had betrayed her. How could she look her in the eye?
She didn’t deserve Will or Savannah—or Susan, either. Susan had waited at the house with Will during the entire three days. Although it had must have been an ordeal for her, she had done it. And what had Megan done in return?
She should have stayed on the wrong side of the tracks. That was where she belonged.
With another moan, she turned onto her side. In the process, her hand came free of Will’s, but she barely noticed. Her sole focus was on finding that blank spot in her mind where she could hide, forget, vanish.
***
Savannah strode boldly back from the conference room. The press conference had been over for several hours, but she had been waylaid by reporters who had lingered in hopes of learning something more than what she had said publicly. When she’d finally freed herself, she’d gone straight into a meeting with lawyers who hoped to plea-bargain their clients’ way out of the trial on Monday. Her case was strong, which was why the defense was getting nervous. In good conscience, though, she could not deal—at least, not to the tune the defense wanted. She had little sympathy for intelligent men who used arson as a means to collect insurance money on buildings that were heavily overinsured, particularly when those fires resulted in adding scores of people to the ranks of the homeless.
Arnie Watts was with her during the meeting, as was Katherine Trask. Both would be assisting her during the trial. Both agreed that the defense was asking for gifts the prosecution simply could not grant.
So the meeting had ended in a stalemate, with the trial still set for Monday. Wondering how she was going to get herself together for that, when she was still so shaky about Megan, she left for her office. Just beyond the conference-room door, though, she was ambushed by another local reporter.
“A minute, counselor?”
Her step didn’t falter. “If you can keep up with me, you’ve got it.” The reporter was young, new to the newspaper, and female. Particularly in light of the last, Savannah was willing to cooperate. She steeled herself for more questions on the kidnapping, but instead, the reporter asked, “Can you tell me about the Cat?”
Savannah turned a corner. “The Cat?” She hesitated. “What do you want to know?”
