Page 43 of Homeport

With slow care, Miranda wiped away the ring of moisture that a teacup had left on her desk. “Is that what you believe?”

The hesitation spoke more clearly than the words that followed it. “I believe you allowed ambition, haste, and enthusiasm to cloud judgment, logic, and efficiency. I take the responsibility, as I involved you.”

“I’m responsible for myself. Thank you for your support.”

“Sarcasm is unbecoming. I’m sure the media will attempt to contact you over the next few days. You’ll be unavailable for comment.”

“I have plenty of comments.”

“Which you’ll keep to yourself. It would be best if you took a leave of absence.”

“Would it?” Her hand was starting to tremble, so she balled it into a fist. “That’s a passive admission of guilt, and I won’t do it. I want to see those results. If I made a mistake, at least I need to know where and how.”

“It’s out of my hands.”

“Fine. I’ll find a way around you.” She glanced over in irritation as her fax rang and whined. “I’ll contact Ponti myself.”

“I’ve already spoken to him. He has no interest in you. The matter is closed. Transfer me to Andrew’s office.”

“Oh, I’ll be delighted to. He has some news for you.” Furious, she jabbed the hold button and buzzed Lori. “Transfer this call to Andrew,” she ordered, then shoved away from her desk.

She took a deep breath first. She would give Andrew a few moments, then go in to him. She would be calm when she did. Calm and supportive. To manage that, she had to push her own problem aside for a while, and concentrate on the break-in.

To distract herself, she walked over and snagged the page from the fax tray.

And her blood iced over.

You were so sure, weren’t you? It appears you were wrong. How will you explain it?

What’s left for you now, Miranda, now that your reputation is in tatters? Nothing. That’s all you were, a reputation, a name, a chestful of degrees.

Now you’re just pitiful. Now you have nothing.

Now I have everything.

How does it feel, Miranda, to be exposed as a fraud, to be found incompetent? To be a failure?

She clutched one hand between her breasts as she read it through. Her ragged, rapid breathing made her head go light so that she staggered back, leaned heavily on the desk to steady herself.

“Who are you?” Anger leaked through, balancing her again. “Who the hell are you?”

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. She wouldn’t let these mean, petty messages affect her. They meant nothing.

But she slipped the fax into the drawer with the other, and locked it.

She’d find out eventually. There was always a way to find out. Putting her hands to her cheeks, she pressed to bring the blood back into her face. And when she found out, she promised herself, she would deal with it.

Now wasn’t the time to concern herself with nasty little taunts. She drew in air, exhaled, rubbed her hands together until they were warm again.

Andrew needed her. The Institute needed her. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as the pressure in her chest built into pain. She wasn’t just a name, a collection of degrees.

She was more than that. She intended to prove it.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched out of her office with the intention of marching into Andrew’s.

At least two members of the family would stand by each other.

Detective Cook stood by Lori’s desk. “Another moment of your time, Dr. Jones.”

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