Page 177 of Homeport

“Just hurry.” She folded it into a pad, wanting the thickness, and applied pressure. Her gaze skimmed over, rested on the bronze Venus she kept in her office. A copy of the Donatello Ryan coveted.

Another bronze, she thought dully. Another copy. Another victim.

“Miranda, what—” Andrew pushed in the door, then jerked to a stop. “Jesus. Oh Jesus, Elise.” He was on his knees, fumbling at the wound, at her face. “Is she dead? Oh sweet God.”

“No, she’s alive. Ryan’s calling for an ambulance. Give me your handkerchief. I don’t think it’s deep, but I need to stop the bleeding.”

“She needs to be covered. Do you have a blanket, some towels?” Annie demanded. “You need to keep her warm in case she’s in shock.”

“In my office. There’s a throw. Just through there.”

Annie stepped quickly over Andrew.

“I think we need to turn her over.” Miranda pressed the fresh cloth firmly. “To make sure there’s no other injury. Can you do it, Andrew?”

“Yeah.” His mind had gone stone cold. He reached out carefully, supporting Elise’s neck as he rolled her. Her eyelids fluttered. “I think she’s coming around. I don’t see any blood except for the head wound.” He touched a finger gently to a bruise forming on her temple. “She must have hit her head there when she fell.”

“Miranda.” Annie stepped back into the room. Her eyes were dark, her voice dull. “Ryan wants you. Andrew and I will take care of her.”

“All right. Try to keep her calm if she comes around.” She got to her feet, stopping only when Annie squeezed her arm.

“Brace yourself,” she murmured, then moved over to cover Elise with the throw. “She’ll be all right, Andrew. The ambulance is on its way.”

Miranda stepped into her office. One ambulance wasn’t going to be enough, she thought dizzily. A couple of handkerchiefs weren’t going to mop up all this blood.

It was pooling on her desk, dripping down to soak into her carpet. Splatters of it were on the window behind her desk like sticky red rain.

On her desk, flung onto his back with red spreading over his frilled white shirt, was Richard Hawthorne.

Security kept the press and the curious away from the third floor. By the time the homicide team arrived, the scene had been secured, and Elise was on her way to the hospital.

Miranda gave her statement again and again, going back over every step. And lying. Lying, she thought dully, was becoming second nature.

No, she had no idea why either Richard or Elise would have been in her office. No, she didn’t know why anyone would have killed him. When they finally told her she was free to leave, she walked downstairs on legs that felt as fragile as glass.

Annie sat on the bottom step, hugging her elbows.

“Won’t they let you leave, Annie?”

“Yeah, they said they were finished with me for now.”

Miranda glanced toward the guards flanking the archways, the scatter of police roaming the hall. And sat beside Annie. “I don’t know what to do with myself either. I think they’re still talking to Ryan. I didn’t see Andrew.”

“They let him go with Elise, to the hospital.”

“Oh. He would have thought that was the right thing to do.”

“He still loves her.”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’s still hung up on her, Miranda. Why wouldn’t he be?” Then she pressed her hands to the sides of her head. “And I’m insane, ashamed, pitiful to be worrying about that when a man’s been shot, and Elise is hurt.”

“You can’t always control your feelings. I didn’t used to believe that, but now I know.”

“And I used to have a good handle on mine. Well.” She sniffled, rubbed her hands over her face, then rose. “I’d better go home.”

“Wait for Ryan, Annie. We’ll drive you.”

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