"Why was it so special?" Madison asked, feeling an unexpected twinge of jealousy.
"Emily was sick a lot as a kid, so she was always stuck in her room. The Parishes wouldn't even let her have friends over for fear they'd bring germs. But that didn't stop Dylan. He used to climb up the tree next to her bedroom and go through the window to see her. He'd perform tricks for her. She was his best audience, believe me. The rest of us got tired of him pretty fast. But not Emily. She always wanted to see another trick. And he was always happy to give her one." Josh shook his head, then took a swig of his beer. "Cole and I preferred sports, but Dylan was into reading and books. He even used to write poems and stories for her, if you can believe that. Anything to entertain Emily. She was the princess in the tower, and he was determined to rescue her from a life of boredom. It became his mission in life to keep her amused. At least until she got healthier and started leaving the house. Then they drifted apart. Dylan went down to Santa Cruz, and I guess they renewed their friendship when Emily went there two years later."
Madison couldn't quite picture the motorcycle-riding, bad-boy Dylan writing poetry, but then nothing about Dylan added up right. There was something else about Josh's words that struck her funny. It took her a moment to realize what that was. "Did you say Dylan used to write stories?"
"Yeah, mostly stuff about magic worlds, knights of the round table, that kind of thing. He uses those stories in his virtual-reality games now. Have you ever tried one of them?"
"As a matter of fact, I have," she said, not bothering to explain just what virtual world Dylan had taken her to. She was more interested in pursuing her current train of thought. "So you would say that Dylan feels comfortable writing a story?"
Josh raised an eyebrow at that. "What are you getting at?"
"It's just a simple question."
"Nothing is simple about you, Madison. I know Dylan always thought you had a hidden agenda. Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind instead of beating around the bush?"
"All right. Do you think Dylan wrote Fallen Angel, the story of Emily and us?"
Josh's jaw dropped open. Either the thought had never occurred to him, or he was an excellent actor. "Are you out of your mind?"
"I don't think I am, Josh. Obviously you've heard about the book."
"I spoke to Cole about it earlier. But you're crazy, Madison. Dylan didn't have anything to do with that book. He loved Emily. He wouldn't have done this to her."
"To her or for her? Think about it, Josh. Who better to avenge the death of the princess in the tower than her white knight?"
Laura leaned back in the desk chair, staring at the bank statement in her hand. It was dated eight months earlier, and there was an unusually large deposit in the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. Where on earth had Drew come up with fifteen thousand extra dollars? And why had he never mentioned it? More important, what had he done with the money, for there was a matching withdrawal in the same amount just one day later.
She threw the paper down on the desk and stared at the photograph of herself and Drew on their wedding day. They looked so young, so in love, so trusting of each other. Now that trust was in serious question, as was the love. Could you have one without the other? She felt like crying, but she couldn't. Her daughters were upstairs, and she didn't want them to know she was upset about anything. She wouldn't make her pain their pain. She'd never liked it when her mother had complained about her father or their marriage. It had always made her feel uncomfortable and somehow disloyal to her father. She wouldn't put her girls in the same position. But she really needed to talk to someone.
As if on cue, the phone rang. She hesitated for a second, wondering if it was finally Drew calling her back. She wanted to talk to him. She needed to talk to him, but she was suddenly afraid of asking a question for which she didn't particularly want an answer. The phone rang again, and she picked it up, still not sure what she would say if it was Drew.
It was Natalie. Laura let out a sigh of relief.
"I need you to look for something," Natalie said. "Emily's journal. You remember the book she used to write in with the purple cover on it, don't you?"
"Of course I do," Laura said in confusion. "Why would I want to look for it? I don't have it."
"Do you know that for sure? Hear me out for a second. Cole and I just got back from L.A. We found a disguise in Malone's hotel room. He's someone we know, Laura. Someone who is hiding from us."
"You didn't find him, though?"
"No, we missed him again, but while we were in the bookstore, I saw a stack of blank journals, and it reminded me of the one Emily used to write in every night."
As Natalie finished explaining her theory that the journal was the basis for the novel, Laura realized where the conversation was heading. "You think it's Drew, don't you?" She couldn't believe she'd said the words aloud. "How could you think it's Drew? That's impossible. I know my husband." But did she? Did she really?
"Madison told us the other night that Drew went to Emily's room that night. Maybe while he was there, he picked up her journal."
"Why? Why would he do that?"
"We used to joke about Emily using that book to blackmail one of us one day, remember?" Natalie paused. "Maybe Drew had something to hide, something he thought Emily might have written about. I just want you to look around, see if it's stuck away anywhere in your house."
"You're asking me to spy on my husband."
"I know I am," Natalie said. "But he's not home, is he?"
"He's in L.A. on a business trip."
"L.A.?" Natalie echoed sharply. "He's in Los Angeles? That's where Malone is."
"It's a big city. A lot of people go there from San Francisco every day," Laura said desperately. "Drew is not Malone. He did not write this book. He's a lawyer. He's my husband. He's the father of my children. I trust him."
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. "I understand, Laura. I'm sorry I asked. You're right. It can't be Drew."
Maybe because Natalie backed off, because she acted like a loyal friend, putting Laura's feelings before her own ... whatever the reason, Laura found herself saying, "Wait." She took a deep breath, hoping she wasn't about to do something she'd regret. "I'll look for the journal."
"But you just said—"
"I know what I said. I'll do it anyway." Laura hung up the phone and stared again at the bank statement. She'd already found fifteen thousand unexplained dollars in Drew's possession. She couldn't possibly count out one old purple journal with secrets that might have incriminated him. Because the one thing Natalie had said that was unarguably true was that Drew would do anything to protect himself.
Natalie was right on time for the start of her eleven o'clock shift on Wednesday morning. After the emotional turmoil of yesterday's search for the truth, she was relieved to be able to escape to work for a while. She much preferred concentrating on other people's problems rather than her own.
As she approached the entrance to the emergency room, she saw a flurry of press activity and wondered if someone important had been brought in. Usually the press gathered at the main entrance or in one of the conference rooms used by the hospital spokesperson. She was almost at the double doors when she heard one of the reporters call her name.
"Natalie Bishop?" the man repeated.
She whirled around in surprise. "Yes?"
"Are you the Nancy Butler in the novel Fallen Angel?"
"What?" she asked, stunned by the question.
"Did you go to school with Emily Parish? Is the novel about the two of you?" another reporter asked.
"I—I—"
"What do you intend to do about the allegations that you killed your friend?"
"I—I have to go," she stammered, pushing past the reporters into the building. They followed her into the waiting room, but she dashed behind another pair of doors and ran straight into the attending physician.
"Natalie, I'm glad you're here," Rita Mills said, taking her arm. "Come with me." She led Natalie past several wide-eyed and curious nurses into an empty examining room. "The reporters arrived about an hour ago. The patients are asking questions about you and some seem concerned as to whether or not they're going to get you as their doctor. I don't understand why you're of so much interest to the press. Apparently it has to do with some novel that's out? I hope you can explain."
Natalie didn't know where to begin, but it was clear from the somber expression on Rita's face that she was not happy with the situation. Rita ran the ER like a tight ship. She didn't tolerate mistakes, sloppy work, or doctors who did stupid things in their time off. Until now Natalie had managed to escape her wrath.
"I'm waiting," Rita prodded, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
"There's a story in a book that resembles an event that happened while I was in college," Natalie said. "It's fiction. It's not true."
"But it involves the local newspaper family, the Parishes?"
"Yes. I went to college with their daughter, Emily. She died while we were at school. It was an accident."
"One of the nurses told me that the book suggests you had something to do with her death."
"I didn't hurt Emily Parish. That's where the book veers from the truth."
"What about dispensing medication without a license?"
Natalie sucked in a gasp of air. The hospital gossips had done a good job. "I didn't do that, either."
"You worked at the university health center, did you not?"
"Yes, but I didn't steal or dispense any drugs improperly."
"Can you prove that?"
"I don't have to prove it. The accusations are in a novel, a book that's supposed to be fictional entertainment."
Rita stared at her for a long moment. "You're an excellent doctor, Natalie. I don't want to lose you, but I think you need a break, a few days off to sort through this. You can start that break now."
"You're right, I am an excellent doctor," Natalie said fiercely. "And this book is nothing but bullshit. The police investigated Emily's death when it happened. It was ruled accidental. The case was closed. There were never any charges or even a hint of suspicion about my job performance at the health center." A rush of anger filled her as Rita remained unmoved. "I can't believe you're allowing a novel to sway your opinion of me. We've worked beside each other for three years. You know me, Rita. You know what kind of person I am, and even more what kind of doctor I am."
"And you know me, Natalie. I do what it takes to keep this department running smoothly, and right now you are causing a huge commotion. I also got a call from Bennett half an hour ago. He wants me to make this go away."
That was typical of the hospital administrator. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"I'm sure you didn't, but you need to find a way to resolve this issue and repair your professional reputation. I don't have to remind you that a physician must be above all scandal. Especially a female doctor. Fix this."
"Dammit," Natalie swore as Rita left her alone in the examining room. She couldn't believe the impact the book was having on her life. As she gazed around the room, noting the familiar machines and instruments, she felt a terrible fear that she might lose it all. The hospital was her home. The doctors and nurses were her family. Her career was everything. She told herself that it couldn't happen, wouldn't happen. She was guilty of nothing. But apparently she was going to have to find a way to prove that. She had to do what Rita said and fix it.
Cole stared at the copy on his desk. He'd already read it twice and it still didn't make sense. His cousin Marty sat in the chair in front of him. A thin, wiry, nervous type in his early twenties, Marty didn't usually deliver copy personally to Cole's desk, yet here he was today, clearing his throat every thirty seconds and running a hand through his hair, obviously worried about Cole's reaction. He had good reason to be.
"What is this?" Cole asked in a quiet voice that barely contained his anger. He looked at Marty, having the sudden urge to hit him. He was tired. He hadn't slept all night, trying to figure out the puzzle of Malone, the novel, Emily's death, and Natalie's involvement.
"We have to cover the story," Marty said in a tight voice. "It's news."
"It's old news. Emily died ten years ago."
"I know that, but the book is happening now. I wish you'd given me the heads-up on this. I was completely broadsided when a source told me that Entertainment Tonight is running a preview of tonight's lead story with the tagline What really happened to Emily Parish, daughter of the Parish publishing dynasty?"
"Shit!" After his conversation with his father the day before, Cole had known the story was about to blow up. He'd just hoped to have a few days before it exploded, enough time to locate Malone. Apparently, that wasn't going to happen. Who the hell had called ET? Where was the buzz coming from? He knew it wasn't coming from Natalie or himself.
"This brief article gives just enough detail to keep us in the game," Marty said.
Cole ignored that as he leaned back in his chair. "I want to stick with no comment for the moment."
"We can't do that. The integrity of the paper is at stake. We can't let every other news organization cover the story of one of our own." He paused, uttering a nervous cough. "You know we've been slipping the past year. Every day our circulation numbers go down a little bit more. We have reporters all over the world, but hardly anyone covering our own city. And now this. If we refuse to print information about this book, it might put us over the edge."
Cole heard every word Marty said. But this was Emily they were talking about.
"It's the best way to tell our side of the story, to let the world know we're conducting our own investigation," Marty argued.
He knew Marty was right. They had to put out some sort of statement and this was the best compromise. "Fine, run it. But we'll have no further comment until we speak to the author of the book."
As Marty left the room, Jack Hinkley walked in. Jack was a fifty-year-old private investigator who worked for the paper on occasion and most recently on finding Malone. He shut the door behind him and sat down in the chair across from Cole's desk.
"Malone has disappeared off the radar," Jack said bluntly. "He has canceled all scheduled appearances. His publicist claims she resigned yesterday afternoon when it became clear to her that Malone may have misrepresented himself and his book. She says she doesn't know where he is or even where he came from. Apparently, their entire contact was by phone or e-mail."
"His publisher must know who he is. His agent?"
"All of his business correspondence was sent to a post office box. His phone is being picked up by an answering machine. The copyright for the book is held in the name of a corporation with a tax ID number. I'm unraveling that trail as we speak, but it's clear that this guy set out to hide his true identity. There's no question about that."
Of course he had. Malone had plotted this scenario out carefully, even going so far as to disguise himself. As much as Cole wanted to forget Natalie's suggestion that Dylan was involved, Cole had to admit that the whole thing had a Dylan flair to it. Not that he could imagine any reason why Dylan would write such a book. Unless Dylan held Natalie responsible for Emily's death. Had he written the book to punish her for a crime he felt she'd gotten away with?
"Malone is a slippery bastard, but I'll find him," Jack continued, drawing Cole's attention back to the problem at hand. "In the meantime, I did some checking on that other name you gave me last night." He referred to his notes. "Drew McKinney." He paused and looked at Cole. "He's come a long way from his trailer park roots in Modesto. His father has a history of gambling. His mother is a hairdresser. They don't live well, but McKinney does. He's a successful, ambitious lawyer who married into a good family."
"I know all that. What I don't know is what he's been doing for the last year."
"Traveling a great deal. He's in Los Angeles now."
"Where Malone supposedly is," Cole said with a nod, remembering Natalie's conversation with Laura the evening before. "Try to find out if any of his other business trips coincided with Malone appearances."
"Already on it. I'll be in touch when I have more answers. Anyone else you want me to look into?"
Cole hesitated, wondering if he should mention Dylan; then he shook his head. Dylan was his best friend. If there was any investigating to be done, he would do it himself.
"Okay, then." Jack got to his feet. "You know, Emily was a great kid. I remember her sitting at your father's desk drawing pictures. It's a tragedy what happened to her. I'll do anything to help make this right for your family."
"Thanks, I appreciate that." As Jack left the room, Cole's cell phone rang. A chill ran through him as he saw the number. He did not want to take this call, but he knew he'd only be postponing the inevitable. "Hello, Dad? Are you home?"
"No, I'm at the hospital," his father said. "We were mobbed by reporters at the house. your mother collapsed when they asked her about Emily's ... murder." Richard Parish's voice shook with grief and rage. "I thought I told you to take care of this before we got back."
"I'm trying," Cole said, but he knew the answer wasn't good enough for either of them.
"Try harder." His father hung up on him before he could ask which hospital.
Cole hoped to God it wasn't St. Timothy's.
Natalie sat in her car in the hospital parking lot for a good five minutes. Part of her wanted to return to the ER and persuade Rita to let her work out her shift. Being a doctor was what she did best. The hospital was her refuge, her safe haven—a haven that had just been invaded by the press. Where on earth had they all come from? What had happened between last night and this morning to alert the media? Maybe Cole had some idea. He was the media. Which made her wonder—had any of those reporters been from the Tribune? Surely Cole wouldn't cover the story, would he?
But wouldn't he have to? He was a news man, running the biggest newspaper in town. More than anyone, she knew he took his duty to family and the family business seriously. If it came to a choice between the family and her, there was no doubt in her mind which way he'd go.
Starting her car, she pulled out of the parking lot. She wasn't accomplishing anything by sitting, and she hated to be idle, which made going back to her apartment a very unappealing idea. It would be quiet there, too quiet. And it wouldn't serve any purpose. She needed to make a move. Take action. Fix things, as her boss had suggested.
But first ... she needed a friend. It had been a long time since she'd expressed that need to herself. Over the years she'd told herself that relying on anyone was just plain stupidity. Her mother had let her down numerous times, not to mention the other relatives who had passed in and out of her life as quickly as they could. She had to remember that she was fine on her own. She got into trouble only when she let herself care, when she opened herself up—the way she'd done with Emily, Laura, and Madison, and especially with Cole. He'd knocked down her guard wall as if it were made of marshmallows. She'd let him all the way into her life and her heart, and she'd paid a dear price for those few months of love. It had taken her a while to build the wall back up and she'd thought it was strong and impenetrable. Now it was shaking again.
She'd caught a glimpse of the life she used to have with her girlfriends and with Cole, and she was hungering for that life like a woman who'd been on a diet for too long and had suddenly seen a luscious piece of chocolate cake. Just one bite, she told herself, one more conversation or two, that's all she needed. She wasn't going to see Laura just because of friendship; she needed to talk to her about the journal.
Her rationalizations continued all the way down the highway to Laura's house. Natalie considered turning around more than once, but here she was driving through the quiet tree-lined suburban neighborhood of Atherton. She parked in front of Laura's beautiful home, got out of the car, and walked up to the front door. As she raised her hand to the doorbell, she paused, hearing the sound of music coming from inside. It was so sweet, so familiar. Laura was playing the flute.
Natalie had always loved to hear Laura play. It was as if she blew out all her insecurities and doubts and was left with nothing but serenity, peace. And everyone who was listening got caught up in that peace. The music stopped and Natalie rang the bell. The door opened a moment later.
"Natalie," Laura said with a smile. "What a nice surprise."
"I know I should have called first, but there were reporters at the hospital and I had to get away."