Free No Place Like Home by Mary Higgins Clark

could not in my wildest dreams have imagined that Alex would happen to buy my childhood home, but the events of yesterday and the pictures in these newspapers have proved to me that I’m tired of running.
    I sipped the coffee slowly. I want to clear my name. I want to somehow learn the reason that my mother became deathly afraid of Ted Cartwright. What happened yesterday has given me the cover to investigate that need, I thought. As the new owner of the house, it would not seem inappropriate for me to go to the courthouse and make inquiries, saying that I would like to learn the truth of that tragedy, devoid of the rumors and sensationalism. In attempting to clear the stigma on the house, I might even find a way to clear my own name.
    â€œExcuse me, but aren’t you Celia Nolan?”
    I judged the woman who was standing at the table to be in her early forties. I nodded.
    â€œI’m Cynthia Granger. I just wanted to tell you how terrible the townspeople feel about the vandalism to your house. We want to welcome you here. Mendham is a beautiful town. Do you ride?”
    I skirted the answer. “I’m thinking of starting.”
    â€œWonderful. I’ll give you a chance to get settled, and then I’ll drop a note. I hope you and your husband will join us for dinner sometime.”
    I thanked her and, as she left the coffee shop, repeated her surname to myself: Granger. Granger. There had been a couple of Granger kids in the upper classes of St. Joe’s when I was there. I wondered if any of them belonged to Cynthia’s husband’s family.
    I left the coffee shop and for the next hour drove around town, up Mountainside Road to get a look at my grandparents’ home, around Horseshoe Bend, along Hilltop Road. I drove past the Pleasant Valley Mill, the property better known as “the pig farm.” Sure enough, there was a sow grazing in the enclosure. Like every child in town, my parents had taken me to observe the litter of piglets in the spring. I wanted to show it to Jack as well.
    I did some quick food shopping and got back to St. Joe’s well before twelve to be sure that Jack would spot me the minute his pre-K session ended. Then we went home. After Jack had gulped down a sandwich, he begged for a ride on Lizzie. Even though I refused to ride after my father died, the knowledge of how to saddle the pony seemed to be second nature as my hands moved to tighten the girth, to check the stirrups, to show Jack how to hold the reins properly.
    â€œWhere did you ever learn that?”
    I whirled around. Alex was smiling at me. Neither one of us had heard the car pull in. I guess he’d left it in front of the house. If he had caught me going through his pockets, I could not have been more embarrassed or chagrined.
    â€œOh,” I stammered, “I told you. My friend Gina loved to ride when we were kids. I used to go and watch her when she took lessons. Sometimes I’d help her saddle up.”
    Lies. Lie following lie.
    â€œI don’t remember you mentioning that at all,” Alex said. “But who cares?” He picked up Jack and hugged me. “The client I was supposed to spend the better part of the afternoon with canceled. She’s eighty-five and wanted to change her will again, but she wrenched her back. When I knew she wasn’t coming, I beat it out fast.”
    Alex had opened the top button of his shirt and pulled down his tie. I kissed the nape of his neck and his arm tightened around me. I love the outdoorsy look he has, with his tanned skin and the sun-bleached highlights in his brown hair.
    â€œTell me about your first day at school,” he teasingly demanded of Jack.
    â€œFirst, can I have a ride on Lizzie?”
    â€œSure. And then you’re going to tell me about your day.”
    â€œI’ll tell you about how they asked us to talk about our most exciting day this summer, and I talked about moving here and the cops coming and