Free I'll Walk Alone by Mary Higgins Clark

was safely in her office. Then she laid them on her desk and unfolded them. The front page of the Post was a picture of her bending over the stroller. The front page of the News was a picture of her carrying Matthew away.
    Disbelieving, her eyes darted from one to the other. But it isn’t me, she protested. It can’t be me. Someone who looks like me took Matthew… . It made no sense.
    Josh wasn’t due in until later. Zan tried to focus, but by noon she gave up. Zan grabbed the phone. I’ve got to call Alvirah back. I know she has the Post and the Times delivered every morning.
    Alvirah answered on the second ring. When she heard Zan’s voice, she said, “Zan, I saw the papers. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Why would someone who looks like you take Matthew?”
    What does Alvirah mean by that question? Zan asked herself. Was she asking what reason someone would have for making herself look like me and taking Matthew, or does she mean that she thinks I took him?
    “Alvirah,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “someone is doing this to me. I don’t know who, but I have my suspicions. But even if Bartley Longe would go to this length to harm me, there is one thing I’m sure of: He would never hurt Matthew. Alvirah, thank God for those pictures. Thank God for them. I’m going to get Matthew back. Those pictures are going to be my proof that someone is impersonating me, that someone hates me enough to steal my child and now is stealing my identity …”
    For a moment there was silence, then Alvirah said, “Zan, I know a good private detective firm. If you don’t have the money to pay for it, I do. If these pictures have been doctored, we’ll find out who paid to have it done. Wait a minute. Let me correct myself. If you say these pictures are phonies, I absolutely believe you, but I think that whoever has done this has overplayed his hand. I guess you lit a candle to St. Anthony the other night when you stopped into St. Francis of Assisi.”
    “When I stopped in … where?” Zan was afraid to ask the question.
    “Late Monday afternoon at 5:30, quarter of six. I had dropped in to the church to make a donation I promised to St. Anthony and I noticed that some guy was eyeing my friend Fr. Aiden, and I didn’t like it. That’s why I checked the security camera tapes this morning to see if he was anyone Fr. Aiden might know. With all the crazies in New York, forewarned is forearmed. I didn’t see you then, but you are on the tape. You came into the church and left just a few minutes later. I figured you were saying a prayer for Matthew.”
    Monday afternoon at 5:30 or quarter of six. I decided to walk home, Zan thought. I went straight home. I did go west on Thirty-first or Thirty-second Street, but by then I knew I was tired and took a cab the rest of the way.
    But I didn’t stop in the St. Francis chapel. I know I didn’t.
    Or did I?
    She realized that Alvirah was still speaking and was asking about dinner.
    “I’ll be there,” Zan promised, “at 6:30.” She replaced the phone on the cradle and put her head in her hands. Am I having blackouts again? she asked herself. Am I going crazy? Did I kidnap my own son? And if I took him, what did I do with him?
    If I can forget what happened less than forty-eight hours ago, what else have I blacked out? she asked herself in despair.

18

    I n the days when he had worked as an undercover cop it had been easy for Detective Billy Collins to pass as a down-and-out drifter. Thin to the point of boniness, with a sharp-angled face, sparse graying hair, and mournful eyes, he was easily accepted by drug dealers as a likely customer to purchase a fix.
    Now that he was assigned to the Central Park Precinct, and arriving for work in a business suit, shirt, and tie, together with his mild, self-effacing manner, people tended to dismiss him on first acquaintance as an ordinary, run-of-the-mill guy, who probably wasn’t too bright.
    That judgment was