AFTER THE DANCE PART II
Story by Iona Yeager
Wtr4Hire@aol.com
And based on the CBS/VIACOM Series
DIAGNOSIS MURDER
Rated PG13 for Descriptive violence and adult situations.
All Disclaimers apply.
Synopsis: An antique music box is the link to a string of
murders.
-1-
"Okay son, pull her into your arms. Firmly, now. But don't
overwhelm her," Mark instructed. With an awkward, almost
apologetic smile, Steve wrapped hand around Amanda's slender
fingers and pulled her stiffly into his the circle of his arms.
Startled at how neatly their bodies matched, he moved his hips
away from the soft curve of hers. His nostrils twitched, as her
perfume, light and floral drifted up to him. In the background a
guitar drummed out the first strains of a tango. Jesse, playing
DJ, presided over Mark's elaborate entertainment center, grinning
like a boy in sport's equipment store.
"Not so rigid, Son," Mark continued. "Remember the
tango is a dance of seduction and surrender. Look into your
partner's eyes and convey your desires to her."
Incredulous, Steve looked at his father. Mark studied the
couple's form with a teacher's detachment. Steve met Amanda's
eyes. Her eyes sparkled with laughter and comprehension. Shaking
his head, Steve dropped the pose and rested his forehead on top
of hers.
"Dad, I can't do this. This is just--not me. Sorry
Amanda." Steve pulled away from his friend.
Truly disappointed, Mark said: "You give up too easily, Son.
Watch a minute. Come here, Amanda."
Seeing a shadow cross Steve's face, Amanda said quickly.
"Mark, I'm too stressed for a tango. Why don't we work on
that two-step? Just you and I?"
"Okay," Mark said, belatedly realizing the emotional
undercurrents. Steve scrubbed his eyes, tiredly.
"Dad, I'm wiped. I'm going to bed. You and Amanda have
fun."
"Is something wrong?" Mark asked Amanda as Steve
disappeared down the stairs.
"Not really. It's that fish head thing." Amanda grinned
at Mark. Mark laughed. Once he prepared Portuguese styled stuffed
flounder for lunch, making certain Steve got the head. Amanda's
explanation that in certain cultures the Father cut of the head
of a fish and gave to his favorite child did little to inspire
Steve's lost appetite.
"You're teaching him to tango and he's happy with the
electric slide. So. What do you think? Nat King Cole or Johnny
Mathis for the quick step?"
"Whatever you choose, it will have to be without me,"
Jesse announced. "Just got paged." Saluting the two, he
dashed out the front door.
"Are you tired?" Mark asked Amanda, see her stifle a
yawn. He assumed Jesse's place at the entertainment center and
rifled though his extensive music collection.
Amanda wrinkled her nose.
"Not really tired. I mean I don't want to go to bed, you
know? But I don't think I could handle a quick step."
Mark nodded in agreement. He remembered his residency in
pathology. No matter how one steeled one self for the task of
probing a human form, dead or alive, in those first sleeping
hours, the dreams came: countless pale, bloodless, dead faces
staring in mute appeal. Amanda had those dreams too.
Closing her eyes and tilting her head back so her hair brushed
the top of her collar, Amanda wrapped her arms about her waist as
if closing the tiredness within. Mark thought suddenly of his
arms replacing hers, holding her close to him. He was startled
how natural that thought felt to him.
"Lord, she's lovely." The thought came so loudly and
clearly in Mark's head, for a moment he thought he voiced it
aloud. Mark's hands rested on a CD. Intrigued by the wanton
direction of his own imagination he turned back to Amanda, his
head titled in question.
"You want to just dance?"
"Yeah, " she answered with a warm soft, smile.
Mark put on the CD. Strolling to Amanda he took both her hands,
swinging them back and forth as Etta James began the first
soulful notes of her classic "At Last". Amanda closed
her eyes, more to avoid the scrutiny of Marks's too wise, deep
blue gaze, than enjoyment of the music.
"I love this record," she confessed. "I used to
watch my parents dance to this."
Mark chuckled cynically to himself. The song had been a favorite
of Katherine's as well, at time when Amanda was a toddler, if
that. Kate would wait until she was certain Steve and Carol were
asleep then put on the record. He could almost see his wife
standing with her arms open, beckoning him to join her in her
seductive solo dance. Sometimes he was too tired from work to get
out his chair, and he would reach up and pull her down to him in
a different kind of dance.
Mark pulled Amanda into his arms spinning her, then slowed their
steps to match the music. Weird, thinking of Kate now, Mark
thought as Amanda laid her head against his chest. Amanda and
Kate were nothing alike, except for their biting humor and
intelligence. Amanda possessed an emotional vulnerability beneath
her iron will, that was never part of Kate's makeup. Katherine
would never, as Amanda was doing now, flee from her feelings.
Mark's palm slid along Amanda's spine, smoothing the silken
material of her shirt next to her skin. Lacing his fingers with
hers, Mark gently guided Amanda's arms around his neck. He placed
his hands on either side of her waist, drew her closer to him.
They were barely moving now except to mold their bodies closer.
Amanda looked up at Mark, her eyes wide with wonder and
realization, but Marks lips closed on hers before she could form
the question.
-2-
Well, curiouser and curiouser, said Alice, Mitchell Ryan thought,
adjusting his telescope. No would question his midnight sojourn
on the beach. Several other star gazers shared the knoll a half a
mile north of the Sloan's beach house. A pair uniform police
officers strolled nearby, chatting up the other astronomers. One
of the officers, a pretty young woman with dark hair, walked up
to Mitchell.
"Beautiful night," she commented.
"Indeed. Things are pretty clear tonight," Mitchell
said. "All the secrets of the universe exposed."
"What constellation are you watching?"
"Kronos," Mitchell answered, certain the woman would
not realize there was no such heavenly body. He peeked back at
the Sloan House. "Devouring his children."
-3-
"You're behaving like a twelve year old at his first
dance," Jesse told Steve before he pulled his car out the
driveway. "Your Dad is not playing Cupid. After all these
years, I think he realizes that you and Amanda are not getting
together. He just wanted to share his love of dance with
you."
Steve sat on the deck watching the stars shift. Since the time,
at seven years, that he had understood that the earth, not the
stars were moving, he had watched the night sky, waiting to see
the change happen. He never caught it. One moment Venus was
sparkling over the Benet house, the next moment she flaunted her
pink glory directly into his eyes.
"Jesse's right," he thought, getting up and heading
back into his Dad's portion of the house. He grinned at first,
hearing his mother's signal song: "This is your father's and
my alone time song" He almost turned and headed for his own
apartment. He shook his head. His mother was long gone, and there
was no reason to honor her warning. Dad was probably up alone,
reminiscing, he reasoned. Steve stopped cold in the kitchen
archway. His father and Amanda stood in the middle of the living
room floor, their bodies and lips melded together. Just as Steve
recovered enough to back away, Mark raised his head, his eyes
still misted with desire and lips posed to kiss Amanda's ear. He
saw Steve in that millisecond. Mark's eyes narrowed and cleared.
His hand moved up to keep Amanda's head in place and facing him,
protecting her, Steve realized. Mark completed the caress, though
a lot more chaste than intended. Steve spun on his heel and
walked away, knowing that sudden icy expression on his father's
face was a reflection of the one on his own. He went back
outside, waiting for his father to follow him. After an hour of
sitting in the fast cooling night, he realized he waited in vain
and went to his own room.
-4-
"Mark?" Amanda said breathlessly. Her heart racing, she
peered shyly at her friend, bewildered yet thrilled by his
passion. Mark's lips lifted in an unfamiliar smile.
"You look terrified," he chuckled and kissed her nose.
The ballad ended, Etta James belted out a raunchy blues number.
"Wow," Amanda giggled nervously and pulled away. She
looked up at then away from Mark's calm regard. Damn. Ten years
and I pick now to notice how sexy the man is. "I guess, you
were thinking of Katherine."
"I wouldn't do that to you," Mark assured her quietly.
"I was thinking that you felt as soft and tasted as sweet as
I imagined you would. Then I worried a little that we wouldn't
make it to my room, because I don't think Steve could handle
finding us cuddled up on the rug in the morning."
Amanda's face went blank with shock. This time Mark laughter was
genuine.
"You know for two people raised in the sexual revolution you
and Steve are damn prudish."
"Steve?" Amanda repeated.
"Nothing." Mark took Amanda's face into his hands.
"I know you're part of the generation that likes to examine
everything and talk things out. But I don't want to talk with you
Amanda, I want to make love with you, but I can see that you're
not ready for this. Maybe, I'm not either. I have no idea when my
feelings for you changed. All I know is that they have. Sooo, You
are going to bed, alone, and I going for a long drive. We'll deal
with this in the morning."
Amanda bit her lips, torn. Mark kissed her forehead.
"It's all right, sweetheart. Go to bed."
Amanda vanished down the corridor. Mark held his hands in front
of him as if physically weighing his options.
A: Go outside where he knew his irate son was waiting to
"have it out" with him or...
B: Sneak out to his car, drive out to the canyons and let the
wind blow off his thwarted desire. Etta James sultry voice teased
his loins again. Steve could wait. Mark gathered his Metallica
and Pink Floyd CDs and headed for the side door.
-5-
"I'll do anything for you dear, anything for you dear."
Verna Nash could hear two year old Amanda Belle trying to sing
along with the Ryan boy as she and his mother approached the bath
room. Connie Ryan's plump face was chalk white except for the
bright red spots on her cheeks.
"Mrs. Nash, I assure you that these claims are unfounded.
Mitchell is wonderful with the children, especially little Mandy
Belle, I mean Amanda. There's is nothing perverse in their
relationship."
"I'll have to see for myself," Verna huffed, hating
herself for sounding like some gruff, prissy, narrowed minded
social worker from a depression era movie.
They opened the bathroom door. Seventeen year old Mitchell held
little Amanda high over his head. The toddler was naked except
for tiny pink print panties. The bathroom was soaked with sudsy
water and a pile of clothes stained with thick brown mud lay in a
corner. Amanda squealed with delight as Mitchell blew noisily on
the fatty part of her belly.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Connie shrieked hysterically.
Amanda, startled burst into tears, her arms going around
Mitchell's neck for support. The boy stared at his mother dumbly.
"Just playing," the boy stuttered. He saw Verna
standing behind his mother, the relived smile on her face
transforming to concern, as Connie jerked the baby from the boy's
arms and slapped him hard across the face.
"You stupid, stupid, boy! Do you want them to take
everything away from us?"
"Bad mommy, Bad Mommy." Amanda squirmed out of Connie's
arms. Grabbing the woman's skirts, the child attempted to spank
her on the bottom. "Not hitting lawed in this house!"
She said and marched over to her foster brother. He picked Amanda
up and held her close. Verna shook her head.
"I knew," she admitted looking fearfully at the adult
Mitchell Ryan. The boy's fear and hatred in the grown man's eyes
was chilling.
"You knew what?" He asked in that deep, hypnotic voice.
"Say it. Say it out loud."
Verna licked her lips, swallowing her terror.
"I- knew, I knew_"
"Say it, you repressed, narrowed-minded, lying bitch! You
knew what?"
"I knew you did not abuse Amanda. I knew it."
Five years into working for the State, Verna Nash realized that
she was never going to be rich or famous. There were no
"Charlies" or "David and Lisa's" in her work
days. There were just a lot of overworked women and men,
scrambling to clean houses before she walked up the driveway, a
lot of meaningless forms that probed no further into the human
psyche than "Name", "social security number",
and "list the members in hour household under the age of
twenty-one". Then two of the Nash foster children hinted of
sexual abuse by one of the older boys. Verna Nash saw Jonathan
Wilson's name on the list and was pretty certain that if there
was abuse she knew who the culprit was. If there was ever a
poster child for the flaws in the Foster care system, Jonathan
Wilson was that child. Arrested at twelve for soliciting on Rodeo
drive, it was discovered that sold by his drug abusing parents,
Jonathan had been a star in child pornography ring until he
became too old for the groups monstrous clients. His
psychiatrist, Alan Payton, fame hungry and perverse, milked the
boy for his experiences for his later best selling book on
sexuality in preteens, but offered no true therapy and now as
Jonathan neared 18 he was growing to old for Payton's
"research". Jonathan smirked at Verna as she entered
the Ryan home.
"Mitch is playing with Mandy in the bathroom," Jon
said, noting Verna's disgust as Connie scrambled to tidy the
house.
"We weren't expecting you until tomorrow," Connie
apologized.
"You have three children of your own, and five foster
children, Mrs. Ryan. We don't expect the house to be immaculate.
We are concerned more with the mental hygiene of the children.
Often when there are so many children in one household, abuse can
take parents are not aware of."
Then they found Mitchell and Amanda. Although Verna did not for
one minute think that Mitch had abused Amanda, she realized that
Connie Ryan was way over her head with eight children. Some women
handled mother hood with the ease of Joe Dimaggio on the baseball
diamond. Some, like Connie needed help and were too proud to ask.
Verna meant well by taking Amanda from the home, however Payton
became involved. Within weeks newspaper splattered pictures of
the adult Ryans, branding them as child molesters. The children
were taken from the home pending a lengthy and finally fruitless
investigation. Verna, caught up in the excitement, and wanting a
piece of the notoriety, conveniently forgot that Amanda did have
on panties, and that Mitchell's playful tickling was not in the
least sexual.
Mitchell grabbed Verna by the hair. Covering her mouth to muffle
her scream, he placed his cheek next to hers, and shoved her
phone in her face.
"Two years I spent in juvenile halls and in that freak,
Payton's office. I can stil smell him, standing in front of me
with his shirt raised up over his pasty, pot belly -- Show me
again how you tickled the baby Mitch." Growling with inner
anger his hands tightened in Verna's hair. "You're going to
call her." He told the sobbing woman. He turned her face to
meet his. "You're going to call my Mandy Belle and you're
going to reprise your venal bitch on the take role and threaten
to expose her."
"Expose her with what? She was only two years old, and there
was no evidence of abuse," Verna reasoned.
"Just follow my instructions."
-6-
To her amazement, it was her cell phone humming that awakened
Amanda. After the events of the night before she was certain she
would not sleep. She lay in dark guest room, half-waiting,
half-hoping that Mark would change his mind and come to her. She
could not believe that she had, like a frightened, virginal
teenager, ran from the love he offered her. Slipping on a soft
nothing of a nightgown she had walked six times to the door,
placed her hand on the handle, then surrendered to her fear and
finally climbed in bed, falling asleep to the tinkling of the
music box.
The phone buzzed again. Amanda leaned over the side of the bed,
digging her phone out of her purse. She frowned at the clock.
Seven A. M.
"Mom?" She said instead of "Hello".
"Amanda Bentley?"
"Yes."
"Um. You might not remember me. I was your case worker when
you were in foster care."
Amanda set up, her body suddenly cold.
"Mrs. Nash?"
"You remembered me."
"What do you want?" Amanda asked, her voice quiet and
sharp. She remembered, not the early years, but the later years,
the many transfers, and interviews and visits to shrinks who
asked her probing, incomprehensible questions. For two years,
after Amanda was placed with the Bentley's the woman would visit
every three months with rude, greedy questions. The adult Amanda
understood that woman only had her welfare in mind, that she did
what any social worker in her place would have done. She could
not know that Amanda associated her with strange new bedrooms,
strange siblings, strangers pretending to be parents. Ashamed
that the child's hatred should creep in her voice, Amanda added.
"I'm surprised to hear from you, after all these years, Mrs.
Nash."
"Really," the woman said into the phone. There was a
long pause. "I know, Amanda. I know about Jonathan Wilson
and Mitchell Ryan."
"Know what? What are talking about? What about Jonathan
Wilson?"
"The boys who molested you when you were a child. You got
even with Jonathan. What did he do threaten to expose you? You
should have turn the tables. Threatened to expose him as a child
prostitute and child molester."
Frowning, Amanda climbed out of bed, reaching for her bathrobe.
"Who is this? What the hell are you talking about?"
"If you don't want to be exposed as a murderer you need to
meet with me. Now."
Amanda knew she should go downstairs and wake Steve and Mark and
tell them about the strange phone call and the woman's insane
claims, but just the woman's voice changed her back into that
small, confused, girl who was ashamed to be heard or seen. Taking
a three minute shower, she put on a pair of jeans and short
sleeve sweater and crept noiselessly out of the Sloan house.
-7-
Following the woman's instructions, Amanda parked in the alley
near the woman's bungalow in the modest neighborhood. She double
checked the address and climbed up the short stairway to the back
porch. The door opened at the first knock. Wishing for the
twenty-seventh time she had let Steve teach her to use a gun,
Amanda eased into the house.
"Mrs. Nash?" She called out. She walked through the
pristine kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the smell of bleach mixed
with pine cleaner. The aroma filled her with an unreasonable
sense of anxiety. She pushed open the swinging door. His eyes
huge with fear, Mitchell Ryan jumped out at her pointing a gun at
her. His hands, gripping the gun wrong for firing, shook.
"I didn't kill her," he panted. "She called me,
told me she knew about Jonathan and she was going expose me if I
didn't come. She was dead when I got here."
Amanda held out her hand.
"Okay, I believe you. She called me too. Please put the gun
away."
Mitchell shook his head.
"She said it was you," He told. "She said you were
our foster sister and you knew about the charge and you wanted to
get even."
"I don't know what she was talking about," Amanda
swore. "I didn't know Jonathan Wilson until he came to work
at Community General."
"Are you really Amanda Belle?"
Amanda's eyes widen with shock.
"Yes. Who are you? How do you know me?"
"It wasn't true, the allegations that Jon or I molested you.
I can prove it." Nervously backing away, still holding the
gun he backed into the living room. He picked up a stack of
papers and handed them to her. Amanda hesitantly accepted them.
As she advanced on him, she saw the body.
"Oh my God," She started towards the body. Mitchell
lowered his gun hand.
"Her throat's cut, just like Jon's," Amanda noted.
Surreptitiously she examined Mitchell. His pants and shoes were
immaculate, just like the night before. "We have to call the
police."
"What are we going to say?"
"We'll just tell them the truth." Amanda said taking
out her cellular.
"Amanda, you don't understand. This woman was blackmailing
me. She was blackmailing Jon Wilson and a few other people. I
told the police I hardly knew Jon and I didn't speak to him, but
we did speak--about Verna Nash. She was putting the squeeze on us
and said she was working with you. She somehow got copies of our
records and was using the information she gathered as social
worker to against us. John and I paid up. We know we couldn't
allow the public to know we were suspected of molesting a two
year old. Even though the cliam was proven a lie, people prefer
the scandal."
Amanda put the phone in place.
"No one had ever said anything to me about this," She
told Mitchell. "What is this about?"
"Read it."
Amanda looked at the man. She sped read to through the papers.
"You were tickling me?" Amanda shook her head. She had
no memory of these events. She felt a wariness come over her, as
if dozens of people behind a wall of silence were watching her.
"I was blowing on your tummy," Mitchell smiled despite
the dire situation. "You were always into something. You
decided to make these huge dirt cakes for me and you were covered
from head to toe with mud. I gave you a bath. There were eight of
us, and Ma couldn't do it all. I was trying to dress you, but you
were running around the bathroom and singing and dancing. I
finally got your underwear on and you tried to run away. I picked
you up and blew on your tummy."
"It says here that it was not sexual contact, their was no
evidence of anyting but appropriate affecion between us."
"Of course it wasn't sexual contact. You were baby for God's
sake. Even Jon wouldn't molest a baby. And as to appropriate
affection--you were my baby sister. I adored you, Amanda."
Amanda rifled through the papers, his words floating over her
head.
"My whole life is in here. How did she get these records?
They were ordered sealed."
"I don't know. I don't care. I'm going to jail."
Amanda snorted.
"Please. You're a billionaire media czar living in
California. You know as well as I do that you are not going to
jail. All the evidence is circumstantial, and they can't use
these records. We're going to put them back where you found them,
or we'll be charged with tampering with evidence."
"If we return them, we are tampering with evidence,"
Mitchell pointed out.
"Please don't remind me that I'm breaking the law,"
Amanda said stuffing the papers into the desk.
-8-
Steve poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across the deck
table from his father.
"Where's Amanda?"
"She was gone when I got up." Mark said. " I guess
she had to leave early for work or to pick up the boys."
Steve nodded. He picked up a muffin from the center plate. Mark
passed the cream cheese to him.
"You could have picked a different song, Dad," Steve
said finally.
Mark smiled.
"Would that have made what you saw a little more acceptable
to you?"
Steve put his muffin and butter knife on the table.
"I can't wrap my mind around seeing Amanda in your arms like
that. I mean you were making out with Amanda. This tops finding
you and Mom out by the pool when I was twelve. I'd say that
Amanda is like my sister, except I don't get the same pleasure
watching Carol walk away as I do Amanda."
"Thank God. Amanda is not your sister, and she is my friend.
I never thought of her as a daughter."
"That was pretty obvious," Steve said wryly. "Are
you in love with her, Dad?"
His beeper went off before his father could answer.
"Crime scene. Can we talk later?"
"No."
Steve paused, his hand on the chair.
"No?"
Mark smiled sadly.
"I love you, son. But Amanda and I need to talk, if indeed
there is anything to talk about. Be careful out there."
-9-
The Nash woman's house was crowded with Police and medical
examiner's technicians when Steve arrived. Mitchell Ryan huddled
in a corner watching Amanda's every move. He raised his laser
sharp eyes and looked at Steve with his strange discerning smile.
Cheryl Harris strolled up to Steve. The pretty, dark skinned
Police officer placed her hands on her generous hips.
"Steve, do you know Ryan? What's his connection to Doctor
Bentley?"
Steve's eyebrows lifted, surprised by Cheryl's formal address for
Amanda.
"Other than a joint charity, there is no connection.
Why?"
Cheryl bit her lip. She glanced at the Amanda then down at her
own shoes.
"You will not like this."
"There's a dead woman in this house," Steve pointed
out. "What's there to like?"
"Amanda was first one on the scene. --Before me even."
"And?"
"Well, I made the call to Doctor Bentley right after I
received the 911 reporting a disturbance and possible homicide. I
was in my car on the way to the scene as I made the call. I
didn't see Doctor Bentley pull up. Her car is parked out back.
She was here, checking things out." Cheryl shook her head.
"Other than the body, this site is clean--I mean really
clean and neat, like that perp just walked in, cut the woman's
throat and left. No forced entry, no disturbed papers or
furniture."
Steve rubbed his face.
"I know. I noticed it to," He glanced over at Amanda.
She looked at him with large, frightened eyes, then struggling to
control her expression she continued with her work. Steve turned
back to Cheryl.
"Doctor Benley swears Ryan got her only moments before she
did--but if he was here when she arrived, how would she know when
he arrived?" The woman continued. "I like Doctor
Bentley, Steve. I haven't mentioned this to anyone else--but, I
can't and will not keep silent forever."
Steve squeezed the woman's shoulders. He walked over to Amanda.
She concentrated hard on her exam of hte crime scene.
"Doctor Bentley, can we talk outside?"
"I'm kind of busy here, Steve," Amanda demurred.
"It can wait. Now Amanda." He said quietly. Mitchell
Ryan smiled as the two left the house.
"What is it Steve?" Amanda asked irritably. Steve
tilted her chin so their eyes met.
"I'm going to say this once," he said gently. "Lie
to me and I'm going to arrest you here and now for obstruction of
justice. Do you understand?"
Amanda hesitated. She saw Cheryl watching them from the door. She
dropped her eyes. She nodded.
"Do you need to pull yourself off this investigation, Doctor
Bentley?"
"Yes."
"Go do that now. And distance yourself from Ryan."
"Steve, I can't. You don't understand."
Steve tightened his grip on her chin.
"Look at me, Amanda, because your life depends on the next
answer."
"Did you just threatened me?"
"When it comes to my Father, I don't threaten. You know
that."
"Your Dad?" Amanda seemed genuinely startled.
"What does this have to do with Mark?"
"I saw you two last night."
"Oh? Oh." Amanda whistled. "That explains a couple
of things. Steve this has nothing to do with your Dad. I promise
you."
Steve shook his head.
"Amanda, my Dad doesn't have affairs. If you and he--well,
everything you do affects him. And if you're in trouble, he's
going to go the mat to help you out. You know it. I know it. So I
want to know right now, are you using my Dad to cover for
Ryan?"
"Of course not. I hardly know Mitchell Ryan. Why would you
think something crazy like that?"
"Amanda, when did you arrive on the scene of this
crime?"
Amanda looked away.
"Is this an official question?"
Steve swore and grabbed Amanda by the shoulders.
"Dammit Amanda, you know better than this. What is going on
between you and Ryan? Is he blackmailing you?"
"No."
"Amanda, the man is guilty."
"What are you talking about? Guilty of what? Mitchell didn't
kill this woman."
"Doctor Bentley," Cheryl called. "You're needed in
here."
Steve's hands tightened on Amanda's shoulders.
"I'll ask Jeremy to take over," Amanda said. "I
know the victim. That's all I can say without a lawyer."
Steve let his hands fall. He sighed. Amanda patted his shoulder.
"I won't involve your Dad in this." She promised him.
"I'll stay at my own place tonight."
Steve's stroked her face, his stern expression surrendering to
over a decade of affection.
"Let me help you," he urged quietly.
Amanda dropped her head.
"You can't." She said sadly and joined Cheryl. Steve
followed them into the house. Amanda spoke to her younger
colleague, turning the assignment over to him. Mitchell Ryan and
his attorney gathered Amanda into their circle. Watching Steve
over Amanda's shoulder, Ryan slipped his arm around Amanda's
waist. Amanda accepted the support with a tiny, childlike smile.
Ryan smiled and nodded at Steve as if dismissing him.
Steve went into the kitchen and took out his cell phone.
"Dad," he said into the phone. "We have to
talk." He grimaced listening. "Yes, about Amanda. She's
in trouble, Dad."
Part Three to come.
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