The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [58]
“Have you stopped to think what good it would do to make this public? Have you thought about the people involved and what might happen to them? You’ve already said that the girl has no idea of who she is. Think about the girl, Simon. Think about what could happen to her.”
“I have thought about the girl. And the girl has a name, Philip. It’s Dina. And she’s a grown woman.” For a split second Simon felt protective of her, before he realized that the one she needed protection against could well be him. He pushed the thought aside. “Don’t you think she deserves to know who she is?”
“It’s much more complicated than merely a matter of who she is.”
Norton turned abruptly and headed back down the hill, turning once to look back at Simon and say, “I wanted you to be the one to do the book because I believed that should your efforts lead to the girl, you would have the maturity, the wisdom, to understand that sometimes something is more important than the story and your personal gain. I can see I overestimated you.”
“You haven’t given me a good-enough reason to let it go, Philip. Unless you can tell me who killed Blythe . . .” Simon waited for Norton’s response.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Well then. I’ll do my job, and you’ll continue to do yours.” Simon ignored the stab of regret he felt at that moment. He’d admired this man, cared about him. Trusted him. “And for the record, you were the one who taught me that nothing—ever—was more important than the story.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Simon stood on the crest of the hill and watched Norton disappear behind a small grove of trees. He felt none of the satisfaction he’d thought he’d feel once he confronted Norton. He’d expected the man to admit to having attempted to manipulate Simon once the facts had been thrown in his face, but he hadn’t expected Norton to appear offended by Simon’s accusations. And Norton had definitely appeared offended. Offended and a bit frustrated—and worried.
The wind kicked up again, sending chilled fingers to prod through Simon’s jacket, but he was rooted to the spot where he stood and tried to sort through it all. It was so unlike Philip Norton to hide the truth. Any truth.
It was one thing for Norton to be willing to overlook the fact that the sainted Hayward had in fact been a philandering husband who had left his mistress with a child, but there was still the fact that Blythe’s death had been swept under someone’s carpet for almost thirty years. Did Norton know whose? Or was it Norton’s own?
Whom was he protecting?
What good would it do for the story to break, Norton had asked. What would be the effect on the people most closely involved in this?
What, Simon had to wonder, was really at stake here?
Think about the girl . . .
Norton’s words echoed in Simon’s ears throughout the night. Simon turned over yet again, punched his fist into his pillow, and pulled up the light blanket.
As if Simon hadn’t been thinking about the girl, ever since he’d first seen her pushing an overloaded wheelbarrow through the gate at the garden she’d planned in memory of her friend. Even before she removed her glasses and he’d seen her face—before he had any idea of who she was—he’d been drawn to her.
Think about the girl . . .
Simon fell asleep doing just that.
And awoke sometime later, covered with sweat, the sheets twisted in his hands and a hole the size of Delaware in his gut. For a moment he felt disoriented, adrift, as one sometimes does when awakened from a nightmare, unsure of which world is illusion and which is reality.
He sat back against the headboard, his heart still pounding, and closed his eyes. It had been so real. . . .
It was dark and the woman was crossing the street, calling his name. There was a street lamp, but the light was too dim to see her face. Then the car came, traveling faster, faster. The woman had her back to the car, her hands cupped at her mouth, calling to him. As the car slammed into her body and drove it forward, she screamed his name.
Simon!
The sound of it had jolted him from his sleep.
He pushed