Free Nighttime Is My Time: A Novel by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

worse, whatever I have become was because of the life I led here, and I have to make peace with that.
    "Oh, I don't think I'm in the market for a home in Cornwall," she told Jack Emerson.
    "Maybe not now, Jeannie," he said, his eyes twinkling, "but I bet that someday soon I'll find a place for you to stay. In fact, I'm
sure
of it."
    21
    A t these dinners the honorees are usually introduced in increasing order of importance, The Owl thought sardonically as Laura's name was called. She was the first to receive her medal, jointly presented by the mayor of Cornwall and the president of Stonecroft.
    Laura's garment bag and small suitcase were in his car. He'd sneaked them down the backstairs, out the service entrance, and into the trunk without being observed. As a precaution he'd broken the light over the service entrance and worn a cap and jacket that could vaguely have passed for a uniform if anyone happened to see him, even from a distance.
    Predictably, Laura looked beautiful. She was wearing a gold dinner gown that, as the well-worn saying went, "left nothing to the imagination." Her makeup was flawless. Her diamond necklace was probably fake but looked good. Her diamond earrings might be genuine. They were probably the last, or near the last, of the jewelry she'd received from her second husband. A little talent, helped by her spectacular good looks, had given Laura her fifteen minutes of fame. And, face it, she had an engaging personality—that is, if you weren't on the receiving end of her trashing.
    Now she was thanking the mayor, the president of Stonecroft, and the dinner guests. "Cornwall-on-Hudson was a wonderful place to grow up," she gushed. "And the four years at Stonecroft were the happiest of my life."
    With a thrill of anticipation, he imagined the moment when they got to the house, when he closed the door behind her and saw the terror begin to come into her eyes, the moment when she understood that she was trapped.
    They were applauding Laura's speech, and then the mayor was announcing the next honoree.
    Finally it was over, and they could get up to leave. He sensed that Laura was looking at him, but he did not meet her glance. They had agreed that they would mingle for a little while, then go to their rooms separately while everyone was saying good night. Then she would meet him at the car.
    The others would be checking out in the morning and driving in their own cars to the memorial service at Alison's grave, and then on to the farewell brunch. Laura wouldn't be missed until then, and the supposition might easily be that she'd simply had enough of the reunion and had headed home early.
    "Congratulations are in order, I suppose," Jean said, resting her hand a few inches above his wrist. She had touched the deepest and most ragged of the dog bites. The Owl felt a spurt of blood from the wound dampen his jacket and realized that the sleeve of Jean's royal blue dinner gown was in contact with it.
    With a tremendous effort he managed not to give any hint of the pain that shot through his arm. Obviously Jean did not realize what had happened, and she turned to greet a couple in their early sixties who were approaching her.
    For an instant, The Owl thought of the blood that had dripped onto the street when the dog bit him. DNA. It concerned him that it was the first time he'd ever left physical evidence behind—except, of course, for his symbol, but over the years everyone everywhere had missed that. In a way he'd been disappointed by their stupidity, but in another way he'd been glad. If the deaths of all those women were linked, it would make it harder for him to continue. If he chose to continue after Laura and Jean.
    Even if Jean realized the spot on her sleeve was blood, she wouldn't have any idea where it had come from and how she had come in contact with it. Besides, no detective, not even Sherlock Holmes, would connect a spot on the sleeve of an honoree of Stonecroft Academy with blood found in the street