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house.
    â€œI knew the Bartons,” she explained. “Will Barton was an architect and restored this house himself. It was all such a terrible tragedy.”
    It was a tragedy she was happy to recall for the media, going into great detail, including her belief that Liza Barton at age ten knew exactly what she was doing when she took her father’s gun out of the drawer.
    Dru stepped forward. “Not everyone believes that version,” she said brusquely.
    â€œNot everyone knew Liza Barton as well as I did,” Marcella snapped back.
    When Williams went back inside, Dru walked up to the front door to study the skull and crossbones that had been carved into it. Startled, she realized that there was an initial carved into each ofthe eye sockets of the skull—an L in the left socket, and a B in the right one.
    Whoever did this is really creepy, Dru thought. This wasn’t slapped together. A stringer for the New York Post had arrived and began to study the skull and crossbones. He gestured to his cameraman. “Get a close-up of that,” he ordered. “My guess is that we have tomorrow’s front page photo. I’ll see what I can find out about the new owners.”
    That was exactly what Dru was planning to do as well. Her next stop was going to be the home of the neighbor, Marcella Williams, but on a hunch she waited around to see if anyone representing the new owners came out to make a statement.
    Her hunch paid off. Ten minutes later, Alex Nolan appeared before the cameras. “As you can understand, this is a most regrettable incident. My wife will be fine. She’s exhausted from the packing, and the shock of the vandalism simply overwhelmed her. She is resting now.”
    â€œIs it true you bought the house as a birthday present for her?” Dru asked.
    â€œYes, that’s true, and Celia is delighted about it.”
    â€œKnowing the history of the house, do you think she will want to stay here?”
    â€œThat is entirely her decision. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Alex turned, went back into the house, and closed the door.
    Dru took a long sip from the bottle of water she kept in her shoulder bag. Marcella Williams had explained that she lived just down the road. I’ll gowait for her there. Then, after I talk to her, Dru decided, I’ll look up every detail I can find about the Little Lizzie case. I wonder if the court transcripts are sealed. I’d like to do a feature article about it. I was with the Washington Post when that happened. And wouldn’t it be interesting if I could find out where Liza Barton is now, and what she’s doing with her life. If she did deliberately kill her mother and try to kill her stepfather, chances are she’s gotten into trouble again somewhere along the way.

7

    W hen I opened my eyes, I was lying on a couch that the moving men had hastily placed in the living room. The first thing I saw was the terrified look in Jack’s eyes. He was bending over me.
    My mother’s eyes, so frightened in that last moment of her life—Jack’s eyes were so like Mother’s. Instinctively, I reached up my arm and pulled him down beside me. “I’m okay, pal,” I whispered.
    â€œYou scared me,” he whispered back. “You really scared me. I don’t want you to die.”
    Don’t be dead, Mom. Don’t be dead. Hadn’t I moaned that as I rocked my mother’s body in my arms?
    Alex was on the cell phone, demanding to know why the ambulance was taking so long to arrive.
    An ambulance. Ted being carried out on a stretcher to an ambulance . . .
    Still holding Jack, I pushed myself up on one elbow. “I don’t need an ambulance,” I said. “I’m all right, really I am.”
    Georgette Grove was standing at the foot of the couch. “Mrs. Nolan, Celia, I really think it would be better if . . . ”
    â€œYou really must be checked