It was an insult to her and an insult to the men who had died because of their profession. Michael made herself remember that—five colleagues had died simply because they were newspapermen. She owed them something. Her story, her account of the robbery, would be the best revenge. She didn't have to live to tell it in the Chronicle, she had to live to tell it in the court. Knowing that kept her quiet and alert. If Ethan or any of the others wondered at her uncharacteristic silence, they never commented on it. Michael shared Ethan's mount and the fit was uncomfortably tight. Every time she moved she was aware of him, aware of the hard wall of his chest, aware of the supporting cradle of his thighs. She tried not to move. She tried not to think of the way she had clung to him during the night. The morning grew warmer, making the impending storm more threatening. Michael still wore the jeans Ethan had given her. Her skirt had been as stiff as Ethan warned. Her shoes wouldn't fit over the heavy socks so she carried them in her lap and clutched them because she was sometimes afraid she would clutch Ethan.
