Page 172 of Homeport

She pressed her lips together. “I haven’t lost sight of what this can do for my career, or what it can mean to the art world. And I know we made a deal. But I’m asking you now to agree, to promise, that justice for Giovanni will come first.”

“If Hawthorne’s responsible for Giovanni, he’ll pay. I’ll promise you that.”

“All right. We’ll wait until you’re back from Florence to go to the police. But tonight. How can we possibly go through with tonight? He’ll be there. He’s here now.”

“Tonight goes as scheduled. You have hundreds of people coming,” he went on before she could object. “It’s all in place. You just ride the current. The Institute, and my galleries, are too far into it to pull out. You’re too far in. And we don’t know if he acted alone.”

She ran her hands up and down her arms. “It could still be my mother. It could be any of them.”

There was nothing he could do about the haunted look in her eyes. “You have to handle it, 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.

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