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“But it’s all right for Henshaw.”
“As long as we zero in on the book and the escape. But we can’t talk about the attack on you.”
Kaylie, who had tried to keep as calm as possible during the whole discussion, shook her head. “I can’t do this,” she said, her stomach churning at the thought of reliving the horrible ordeal again. She looked over at Jim. “You can understand, can’t you, why I can’t do this? I was attacked—by a madman. And Zane could’ve been killed.”
“Oh, Kaylie—” Alan interjected. “This isn’t personal. It’s just business.”
She took a deep breath. Facing Johnston’s psychiatrist, talking about the attack of seven years ago, reliving all the hellish details again. For what? To satisfy America’s curiosity? To gain viewers? To sell Henshaw’s book? To further Alan’s career? To further hers?
It all seemed so petty. A headache erupted behind her eyes. She closed her lids and rubbed her temples. In her mind’s eye she saw Johnston’s knife thrust into Zane’s back. She opened her eyes and shook her head. “I—I don’t think I can separate personal from professional on this one.”
“You got a better idea?” Jim asked, popping the gum into his mouth.
“A dozen of them,” she said, her mind spinning to any other possibility. “There’s the leader of the senior citizens’ rights group, Molly McGintry. She’s in town. Or Consuela Martinez, the woman who came into the country illegally, had her baby so that he could be an American citizen, then went public with the fact to fight our immigration laws. Or how about Charles Brickworth, the guy who’s tearing down one of the most historic buildings in the bay area?” she asked, but she could have been talking to walls for all the good it did her.
By the time the meeting was over, Dr. Anthony Henshaw had agreed to be Friday’s guest, and Kaylie, along with Alan, would get the grand privilege of interviewing him.
The thought turned her insides to jelly.
And she couldn’t complain to Zane. What could he say except, “I told you so”?
No, all she could do was find a way to get through the interview.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alan said, clapping her on the back as she reached for her purse. “If we work things right, we could generate enough interest not only for a sequel to Obsession, but there might be enough of a story in Henshaw’s book for a made-for-television movie or documentary.”
“Oh, Alan, forget it,” she snapped, angry at the situation.
“Loosen up, Kaylie,” he replied. “You may not know it yet, but this is the best publicity we’ve ever had. And, face it, sure you were scared—hell, you went through a lot of pain and agony—but no
one was really hurt, were they?”
“No one but Zane and an orderly at the hospital,” she replied dryly, “but maybe they can cut movie deals of their own.”
“There’s no talking to you!” Alan muttered, grabbing his briefcase and athletic bag and storming out of the building.
Kaylie hiked the strap of her purse over her shoulder. How was she going to break the news to Zane?
Chapter Fourteen
Zane kicked at his wastebasket, sending it rolling to the other side of his office. He’d wrestled with his conscience for weeks.
He strode down the hall. Wincing as his wound stretched, he rapped sharply on the door of Brad Hastings’s office.
Brad was behind his desk. Tie askew, thin hair standing straight up from being repeatedly run through with his fingers, Hastings stared into the glowing screen of a computer terminal. He glimpsed Zane from the corner of his eye, typed a few quick commands and swiveled in his chair. “What can I do for you?”
“I think it’s time to take Rafferty off the case.”
“You sure?” Hastings had never before questioned Zane’s judgment. But this was a difficult situation. “I thought you were still concerned for Kaylie’s welfare.”
“I am. But if she found out I was having her tailed, she’d hit the roof.”
Hastings chanced a grin. “So who wears the pants in your family, eh?” He ribbed his boss, hazarding Zane’s considerable wrath for a chance to needle him.
“Kaylie’s big on independence.”
“Whatever you say.” Hastings shrugged and bit on his lower lip. “I could use Rafferty over on the McKay building.”
“Trouble?”
