Read Online You belong to me by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Psychological, adventure, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Crime & mystery, Fiction - Psychological Suspense, New York (N.Y.), Serial Murderers, Women, Crime thriller, Cruise Ships, Women - Crimes against, Television talk shows, Talk shows
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nice evening, Susan decided as she slipped into bed.
She saw that it was ten of eleven. She had been home twenty minutes. When she had tried to say good-bye at the front door of her brownstone, Alex said, "My father told me to always see a lady safely home. And then I assure you I'll be on my way." He had insisted on going upstairs with her and waiting while she opened her apartment door.
Nothing like a little old-fashioned courtesy, Susan thought as she turned off the light.
She was tired but found she could not stop reviewing the events of the day, going over what had happened and what had not happened. She thought about Donald Richards, author of Vanishing Women. He had been an interesting guest. Clearly he would have liked to be invited to the hoped-for meeting with "Karen."
Somewhat uncomfortably, Susan remembered her swift rejection of his hint that he would like to have input into anything Karen might disclose if she kept the appointment.
Would she ever hear from Karen again? she wondered. Would it be wise to make a plea on tomorrow's show for the woman to contact her, if only by phone?
As she started to fall asleep, Susan sensed a warning bell in her subconscious. She stared into the darkness, trying to pinpoint what it was that had set off her internal alarm. Clearly there was something that had happened or that she had heard earlier that day, something that she should have paid attention to. But what was it?
Realizing that she was too tired to focus now, she turned over and settled in for the night. She would think of it tomorrow; surely that would be plenty of time.
19
Hilda Johnson slept for five hours before she awoke at ten-thirty, feeling both refreshed and somewhat hungry. A cup of tea and a piece of toast would go down well, she decided, as she sat up and reached for her robe. She also wanted to see if they would show her again on the eleven o'clock news.
After she watched the news, she would get back into bed and say a rosary for Carolyn Wells, that poor woman who had been hit by the van.
She knew that Captain Tom Shea would be at the precinct station by 8 A.M. sharp. She would be there, waiting for him. As she knotted the belt of her chenille robe, Hilda mentally reviewed the face of the man whom she had seen push Mrs. Wells into the van's path. Now that the shock had worn off, she could remember his face even more clearly than she had seemed to at the time. She knew that in the morning she would have to give the police sketch artist a complete description of the man.
Nearly seventy years ago, she had been a good art student herself. Her grammar school teacher, Miss Dunn, had been very encouraging, saying Hilda had a real talent, especially for sketching faces, but then at age thirteen she had had to go to work, and that left no time for that sort of thing, she thought regretfully.
Not that she had given up sketching entirely, of course. Over the years she often had taken a pad and pen with her to the park and made pen-and-ink drawings that she would frame and give to her friends for their birthdays. She hadn't done it lately, though. There were only a few friends left, and besides, her fingers were too swollen with arthritis to hold a pen easily.
Still, if she could get that man's face down on paper now, while it was still fresh in her mind, it would be that much easier when she went to the police in the morning.
Hilda crossed to the secretary that had been her mother's, and which occupied a place of honor in her tiny living room. She opened the desk section below the mahogany-and-glass cabinet and pulled up a chair. In a drawer was a box of stationery her friend Edna had given her last Christmas. The sheets were large and sunny yellow, and there was lettering across the top that read, "A ban mot for you from Hilda Johnson."
Edna had explained that a ban mot was a clever saying, and the executive-size paper was something she knew Hilda would enjoy. "Not like those little cards that just
She saw that it was ten of eleven. She had been home twenty minutes. When she had tried to say good-bye at the front door of her brownstone, Alex said, "My father told me to always see a lady safely home. And then I assure you I'll be on my way." He had insisted on going upstairs with her and waiting while she opened her apartment door.
Nothing like a little old-fashioned courtesy, Susan thought as she turned off the light.
She was tired but found she could not stop reviewing the events of the day, going over what had happened and what had not happened. She thought about Donald Richards, author of Vanishing Women. He had been an interesting guest. Clearly he would have liked to be invited to the hoped-for meeting with "Karen."
Somewhat uncomfortably, Susan remembered her swift rejection of his hint that he would like to have input into anything Karen might disclose if she kept the appointment.
Would she ever hear from Karen again? she wondered. Would it be wise to make a plea on tomorrow's show for the woman to contact her, if only by phone?
As she started to fall asleep, Susan sensed a warning bell in her subconscious. She stared into the darkness, trying to pinpoint what it was that had set off her internal alarm. Clearly there was something that had happened or that she had heard earlier that day, something that she should have paid attention to. But what was it?
Realizing that she was too tired to focus now, she turned over and settled in for the night. She would think of it tomorrow; surely that would be plenty of time.
19
Hilda Johnson slept for five hours before she awoke at ten-thirty, feeling both refreshed and somewhat hungry. A cup of tea and a piece of toast would go down well, she decided, as she sat up and reached for her robe. She also wanted to see if they would show her again on the eleven o'clock news.
After she watched the news, she would get back into bed and say a rosary for Carolyn Wells, that poor woman who had been hit by the van.
She knew that Captain Tom Shea would be at the precinct station by 8 A.M. sharp. She would be there, waiting for him. As she knotted the belt of her chenille robe, Hilda mentally reviewed the face of the man whom she had seen push Mrs. Wells into the van's path. Now that the shock had worn off, she could remember his face even more clearly than she had seemed to at the time. She knew that in the morning she would have to give the police sketch artist a complete description of the man.
Nearly seventy years ago, she had been a good art student herself. Her grammar school teacher, Miss Dunn, had been very encouraging, saying Hilda had a real talent, especially for sketching faces, but then at age thirteen she had had to go to work, and that left no time for that sort of thing, she thought regretfully.
Not that she had given up sketching entirely, of course. Over the years she often had taken a pad and pen with her to the park and made pen-and-ink drawings that she would frame and give to her friends for their birthdays. She hadn't done it lately, though. There were only a few friends left, and besides, her fingers were too swollen with arthritis to hold a pen easily.
Still, if she could get that man's face down on paper now, while it was still fresh in her mind, it would be that much easier when she went to the police in the morning.
Hilda crossed to the secretary that had been her mother's, and which occupied a place of honor in her tiny living room. She opened the desk section below the mahogany-and-glass cabinet and pulled up a chair. In a drawer was a box of stationery her friend Edna had given her last Christmas. The sheets were large and sunny yellow, and there was lettering across the top that read, "A ban mot for you from Hilda Johnson."
Edna had explained that a ban mot was a clever saying, and the executive-size paper was something she knew Hilda would enjoy. "Not like those little cards that just
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