Free To Have and to Kill by Mary Jane Clark

building. Martha paid the fare, got out, and stood on the sidewalk in front of the old three-story warehouse that she had so passionately renovated into her 13,000-square-foot studio and living space. Just Martha and her six-year-old daughter, Ella, shared five bedrooms, five baths, three fireplaces, and an indoor lap pool. Outside, at the back of the building, there were another 2,000 square feet of multilevel terraces and gardens. With her studio on the first floor, Martha literally lived over the store, and was available for Ella whenever needed.
    A place like hers was almost nonexistent in Manhattan—though it really wasn’t hers at all. Three different banks held mortgages on it now. Still, the thought of losing it sickened her. It was the only home Ella had ever known—except, of course, for the Chinese orphanage. Ella was doing so well here and Martha didn’t want to disrupt that. Her daughter had already been through enough in her short life.
    Some people would argue that she didn’t need to live so lavishly, that Ella didn’t need to go to a private school. But Martha was determined to give her child the best of everything.
    As she straightened the wreath on the front door, Martha made her decision.

Chapter 23
    Friday, December 10 . . . Fourteen days until the wedding
    B efore he drank his morning coffee or turned on his computer to monitor what the overseas financial markets had done overnight, Phillip Brooks bundled up for the three-block walk to the nearest newsstand. He didn’t have a subscription to the New York Post , but he suspected that the paper would have the most gripping coverage of what had happened last night. If there were pictures to be had, the Post would use them liberally, splashing them across the front page and throughout the tabloid. Going to the Internet was no substitute for holding a newspaper in your own hands.
    He locked the door of his junior one-bedroom apartment and took the elevator down three floors to the small reception area where the building’s residents picked up their mail from the metal boxes set into the wall. As Phillip reached to open the heavy glass door that led out to the street, he was nostalgic for the days when he took a doorman for granted, the days when he and Glenna had lived together in the luxurious “classic eight,” the apartment that Glenna lived in now with Susannah. It sickened him that, soon, Casey Walden would live there, too.
    It was all he could do to nod and keep a pleasant expression on his face when Susannah mentioned things that she did with her mother and future stepfather. Every other weekend, Phillip had to listen to Susannah’s account of the latest excursion she had gone on with Glenna and Casey. The guy was a regular tour guide, taking them to the Museum of Natural History, the Bronx Zoo, the New York Aquarium, and always finding other interesting outings. A walking tour of Greenwich Village, where Casey told her about the many writers and artists who had lived there over the decades; a picnic on the grounds of the Cloisters, where he expounded on the highlights of medieval art; a boat ride out to Ellis Island, where Susannah was able to find the listing for her maternal great-great-grandparents who had arrived in the United States after a miserable ocean voyage from Ireland.
    Phillip knew he should be glad that the man who aimed to be Susannah’s stepfather was the sort that seemed to enjoy spending time with his daughter, doing such wholesome and educational things. But all Phillip could feel was jealousy and resentment and anger.
    Casey Walden was stealing his life.
    Reaching the newsstand, Phillip picked up the newspaper and stared at the glaring image of Travis York lying on the stage floor, his mouth gaping open, his eyes bulging. He noticed that a photo credit was given to Martha Killeen. As Phillip studied the picture further, he was surprised at how little emotion he felt. Once he had been so jealous of Travis that he