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 Too late. He shook his head, conviction in his pos­
ture.  The police want me. I m still looking for the pic­
tures, but I ll find them.
 The police are only looking for you to say that she
committed suicide. That she left you a note.
 What note?
 A suicide note. They re closing the case, I said des­
perately.  The FBI lab enhanced the handwriting in­
dentations left on a legal pad in her room.
 I saw it, he said, disdainfully,  beside the bed. It
was blank.
 She mailed the letter to your office, I explained.  It
must be waiting there now. The cops didn t believe
Zachary. They were happy to write her off as a suicide.
She never intended to come back from that swim.
 You re lying.
 I can prove it right now! I can read you exactly
what she wrote. I took it down as the detective read it
to me. It s there, I said, catching my breath,  in my
notebook.
 Get it, he demanded.
I scrambled to retrieve it, then riffled frantically
through the pages.
334 EDNA BUCHANAN
 Darling Pres, I began, voice cracking.
He sat stiffly in the chair, wary eyes riveted on me.
He groaned as I went on, a sound that sent icy ripples
across my skin.
 How could she think I d turn away? he cried as I
finished.  If I had known, if I only knew she really. . .
His voice wavered, hopeless.
 That morning. . . it was like a dream. I couldn t be­
lieve I d done it. My whole body shook. I didn t know if
I would still be able to walk when I left the water. But
instinct took over; it does, you know, in emergencies.
The need for self-preservation. For my daughters. They
need me. I wouldn t let my parents raise them. He
rambled on, bitterly.  They re incapable. When I was a
child they left me with paid strangers, some abusive
and disgusting, while they traveled, enjoying them­
selves, doing as they pleased. We were estranged for
years, until Shannon brought us together. I have to pro­
tect the girls. Everybody knows a victim s spouse is al­
ways the number-one suspect. It was dangerous, but I
had to take the risk. I went back to her room. I had
picked her key up off the dresser the first time. I thought
she d forgotten it. . . . His voice trailed off.
 She didn t forget it, I said.  She knew she wasn t
coming back. She didn t need it.
 I went to cover my tracks, to erase every link to
Seattle. I took the files as well. I knew she was regis­
tered under a phony name. If she was never identified
as Shannon Broussard, she couldn t be connected to
me. But it was the oddest thing, he said, looking up at
me.  The labels had already been cut from her clothes,
the initials removed from her luggage.
YOU ONLY DIE TWICE 335
 She did it for the same reason, I said.  She didn t
want to be identified.
 I could have saved her, he said numbly.
 Yes, I said.  You could have.
Eyes calculating, he savagely chewed his lower lip.
 Would you take money? he said.  You re what, a
four-hundred-dollar-a-week reporter?
 I m underpaid, I said,  but not that underpaid.
 What about your future? he demanded.  You ex­
pect to chase fire engines until you re sixty-five years
old?
 I have to leave now, I said quietly.
He sighed despairingly.  Too late. There s Mr. Marsh
to consider. No, he said sorrowfully,  you can t leave.
 Don t make it worse than it already is.
 Come on. He reached for me.  We re taking a
walk.
 Where? I stepped back, heart thudding.
 It can work, he said, as though thinking aloud.  No
one saw me come up. Marsh found you attractive, he
told me that. You and he had some sort of a relationship,
then quarreled, struggled, and you both fell.
 No. I tried not to panic or look at the windows, the
dark sky and sea beyond.  I didn t even like the man.
He s a news source. Everybody knew that.
 More reason for him to lose control when you resis­
ted.
 He was in a wheelchair, for God s sake, I said, my
voice thin with fear.  This is insane. You ll never pull it
off.
 Why not? The man was an MS victim. He had good
days and bad ones. He was stronger than I expected.
336 EDNA BUCHANAN
I sprang toward the cordless phone on the glass
table. Even quicker, he caught my wrist. The phone
clattered to the floor, spiraling across the shiny tile, out
of reach.
We grappled, as he forced me toward the bedroom. I
kicked, screamed, and shoved him back into the three-
legged telescope. He was caught off balance as it top­
pled and crashed to the floor. Wrenching away, I dashed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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