The marriage lasted only two years. The complaint had been adultery.
I wonder… Jenny thought. She turned back to the computer. The file on Vincent Cole-Vincenzia-was still open. She began searching through the links until she found what she was looking for. Vincent Cole, then twenty-five years old, had been living two blocks from Union Square when Sarah Kimberley was murdered.
If only they had DNA in those days. Sarah lived on Avenue C, just a few blocks away. If she had been in his apartment that night and told him she was pregnant, he easily could have followed her and killed her. Cole probably knew about Barney, a character around Union Square. Could Vincent Cole have arranged the body to throw suspicion on Barney? Maybe he saw him sitting in the park that night?
We’ll never know, Jenny thought. But it’s obvious that Gran was sure he was guilty.
She got up from the chair and realized that she had been sitting for a long time. Her back felt cramped, and all she wanted to do was get out of the apartment and take a long walk.
The charity pick-up truck should be here in fifteen minutes. Let’s be done with it, she thought, and went back into the den. Two boxes were left to open. The one with the Klein label was the first she investigated. Wrapped in blue tissue was the five-dollar dress she had seen in the picture.
She shook it out and held it up. This must be the dress Gran talked about a couple years ago. I had bought a cocktail dress in this color. Gran told me that it reminded her of a dress she had when she was young. She said Grandpa didn’t like to see her wearing it. “A girl I worked with was wearing one like it when she had an accident,” she’d said, “and he thought it was bad luck.”
The other box held a man’s dark blue three-button suit. Why did it look familiar? She flipped open the wedding album. I’m pretty sure that’s what my grandfather wore at the wedding, she thought. No wonder Gran kept it. She could never talk about him without crying. She thought about what her grandmother’s old friends had told her at the wake: “Your grandfather was the handsomest man you’d ever want to see. While he was going to law school at night, he worked as a salesman at Klein’s during the day. All the girls in the store were after him. But once he met your mother, it was love at first sight. We were all jealous of her.”
Jenny smiled at the memory and began to go through the pockets of the suit, in case anything had been left in them. There was nothing in the trousers. She slipped her fingers through the pockets of the jacket. The pocket under the left sleeve was empty, but it seemed as though she could feel something under the smooth satin lining.
Maybe it has one of those secret inner pockets, she thought. I had a suit with a hidden pocket like that.
She was right. The slit to the inner pocket was almost indiscernible, but it was there.
She reached in and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Opening it, she read the contents.
It was addressed to Miss Sarah Kimberley.
It was a medical report stating that the test had confirmed she was six weeks pregnant.
MARY HIGGINS CLARK
MARY HIGGINS CLARK’s books are worldwide best sellers. In the United States alone, her books have sold over 100 million copies. Her latest suspense novel, I’ve Got You under My Skin, was published by Simon & Schuster in April 2014. She is an active member of Literacy Volunteers. She is the author of thirty-three previous suspense novels, three collections of short stories, a historical novel, a memoir, and two children’s books. She is married to John Conheeney, and they live in Saddle River, New Jersey.
WHITE RABBIT by Julie Hyzy
The young woman sitting on the bench stopped fingering a strand of her white-blonde pixie cut. Startled, she looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Excuse me?”
“I asked if you were recapturing your childhood.” The man who had spoken reached down to tap a corner of the book lying on her lap. He had a round face and the sort of little-boy haircut most men ditch long before they hit thirty. Wearing black-framed glasses and a bushy brown beard, he carried a soft paunch and a beat-up messenger bag.
“Interesting reading choice,” he said. “Especially considering the view. My name’s Mark, by the way.”
Stiffening, the young woman clutched the collar of her sweater. Although most of the benches ringing the popular spot were unoccupied, this corner of Central Park was far from desolate. Tourists clambering to pose with its central attraction-an eleven-foot-tall Alice in Wonderland statue-included three young families and a group of college-age kids eagerly snapping photos and sharing results.
“I don’t make a habit of talking to strangers,” she said, turning her attention to two toddlers in shiny neon jackets attempting to climb the giant bronze sculpture. Their father leaned against the White Rabbit and squinted at his phone.
“I’m not strange.” Mark sat on the bench next to her, settling his bag on his lap. “But your comment makes me curious. Are you?”
She didn’t answer.
One of the toddlers, lying prone atop a low mushroom, lost his chubby grip and slid off sideways, landing hard. A split second later, his piercing wails jolted the father into attentiveness. He pocketed the phone and picked up the kid.
Mark pointed and leaned close. “Shouldn’t they be in school?”
“Too young,” she said. “Listen, I don’t want to be rude-”
“Then don’t be.” He propped one elbow atop the bench back and settled an ankle across a knee. Exhaling loudly, he rested his other hand on the messenger bag. “Relax. We’re at a popular attraction in the middle of a busy park on a sunny October afternoon. There’s no harm in a little conversation.”
She lifted her book. “There is if it keeps me from reading.”
“Except you aren’t,” he said. “Reading, that is.”
“What do you think this is?” This time when she lifted the book, she shook it. “A surfboard?”
He drew her attention to the nearby steps, where a young woman hunched over a paperback in her left hand while biting the thumbnail of her right. “She’s reading.” He extended his arm, pointing at a pair of joggers rounding the model boat pond. “They’re not reading.” With an amused look on his face, he said, “Amazing powers of observation, coupled with deductive skill.” He spread his hands. “It’s a gift.”
“I’d say you’re full of yourself.”
“You wouldn’t be the first. Hang on.” He pointed again, this time skyward. Lifting his chin into the crisp, twisty breeze, he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. “Did you catch that?” He continued with barely a pause. “That familiar smell, right on time. You recognize it, don’t you? Death and new beginnings in one fragrant breath. Worn-away leaves and pristine notebooks. Every autumn it comes, right on schedule. Sometimes it lasts for days; sometimes it’s gone before you exhale.”
“Very poetic, but that doesn’t answer-”
He walked his fingers along the edge of her book. “You’ve been sitting here for an hour with Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland on your lap, but you haven’t turned a single page.”
Her voice rose. “You’ve been watching me?”
He scratched his neck. “ ‘Watching’ makes me sound like a stalker. Can’t have that. Let’s just say you pique my interest.”
“If that’s supposed to be a pickup line-”