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fade. Mercifully, she slipped into unconsciousness. When she woke, she was being transferred from the stretcher to a gurney.
    “Miss, can you hear me?”
    Caitlin moaned. “Yes.”
    “Can you tell me your name?”
    “Bennett. Caitlin Bennett.”
    She heard a gasp, then a woman’s voice saying, “Oh my God. It’s C. D. Bennett. You know, the mystery writer.”
    Before she could respond, they began cutting off her clothes as someone else put a hand on her forehead.
    “Caitlin, I’m Dr. Forest, and you’re in the emergency room at New York General. Don’t fight the nurses. We need to check your injuries. We’re only trying to help.”
    She moaned. The last thing she remembered was being put into the ambulance. Someone slid a stethoscope onto the middle of her chest. She gasped when the cold metal touched her flesh.
    “Sorry, was that cold?” the doctor asked.
    She nodded.
    “Can you tell me where you hurt?”
    “My head…shoulder.”
    “Do you remember what happened?”
    “Someone pushed me. They wanted me to die.”
    There was a brief moment of silence, as if everyone was absorbing the implications of what she’d just said, then the same doctor spoke again.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure,” Caitlin said, then reached toward her eyes, wanting to feel her face, trying to figure out why her eyes wouldn’t open.
    “Don’t move,” the doctor said. “I’ll clean your eyes in just a moment. Someone call the cops,” he said. “And get a portable X-ray machine in here.”
    Caitlin sighed with relief. She didn’t have to worry anymore. The doctor was in charge.
    “Caitlin, Nurse Carson is going to clean the blood from your face and then flush your eyes, so relax, okay?”
    Immediately afterward, something cold touched her forehead, and she flinched.
    “Miss Bennett, you need to hold still. You fell face first into the snow. The streets had been salted, and I suspect some of that is in your eyes. That’s why they hurt, and that’s why you don’t want to open them.”
    Caitlin’s panic receded. Answers. That was what she needed, answers.
    “Caitlin, is there someone you’d like us to call? Maybe a member of your family, or a friend?”
    Caitlin answered without hesitation.
    “Aaron Workman.”
    “Is he family?”
    “I have no family. He’s my editor.”
    She thought she heard someone mutter “poor little rich girl,” and then everything went black. When she woke up again, they were transferring her from a gurney to a hospital bed. Pain shot through her body from her head to her toes. She held her breath, willing herself not to scream until the feeling had passed. When she dared to move, she saw the nurses leaving and Aaron standing in the doorway, his face a study in disbelief.
    “Caitie! Darling!” He kissed her forehead and patted both cheeks, as if he needed assurance that she was truly all right. “How did this happen? They told me you got hit by a truck as you crossed the street.”
    Caitlin frowned. “No. No. I was standing at the curb. Someone pushed me.”
    Aaron stilled, an odd expression on his face.
    “You mean…you were jostled in the crowd, right?”
    Caitlin grabbed his hand and started to cry.
    “No. I was pushed.”
    “How do you know? I mean…isn’t it possible that someone inadvertently bumped you and caused you to fall?”
    “No, it isn’t. I know because I felt a hand in the middle of my back, and then I felt a distinct push.” Her chin began to quiver. “Please…Aaron, if you don’t believe me, then how—”
    Aaron’s eyes glittered as he yanked a cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m calling the police. This could be linked to the letters.”
    “What letters?”
    The sound of the man’s voice was startling. They looked toward the door. A tall man and a short, stocky woman were just entering the room.
    The man pulled out a badge as he spoke. “I’m Detective Neil, and this is my partner, Detective Kowalksi. Are you Caitlin