Free I'll Be Seeing You by Mary Higgins Clark

for a while.”
    â€œI was going to anyhow.” Quietly she told him all that had been happening: about the victim who resembled her, the note that had been found in the victim’s pocket, the middle-of-the-night fax. “And so,” she explained, “the station wants me off the firing line for the time being, and my boss gave me the Manning Clinic assignment. And then early this morning the phone rang and . . .” She told him about the call and her mother’s collapse.
    Mac hoped the shock he was feeling did not show in his face. Granted, Kyle had been with them Sunday night at dinner. She might not have wanted to say anything in front of him. Even so, Meg had not even hinted that less than three days earlier she had seen a murdered woman who might have died in her place. Likewise, she had not chosen to confide in Mac about the decision of the insurers.
    From the time she was ten years old and he was acollege sophomore working summers at the inn, he’d been the willing confidante of her secrets, everything from how much she missed her father when he was away, to how much she hated practicing the piano.
    The year and a half of Mac’s marriage was the only time he hadn’t seen the Collinses regularly. He’d been living here since the divorce, nearly seven years now, and believed that he and Meg were back on their big brother-little sister basis. Guess again, he thought.
    Meghan was silent now, absorbed in her own thoughts, clearly neither looking for nor expecting help or advice from him. He remembered Kyle’s remark:
I thought you
were my friend.
The woman Kyle had seen driving past the house on Wednesday, the one he’d thought was Meghan. Was it possible that she was the woman who died a day later?
    Mac decided instantly not to discuss this with Meghan until he had questioned Kyle tonight and had a chance to think. But he did have to ask her something else. “Meg, forgive me, but is there any chance however remote that it was your father calling this morning?”
    â€œNo. No. I’d know his voice. So would my mother. The one we heard was surreal, not as bad as a computer voice, but not right.”
    â€œHe said he was in trouble.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd the note in the stabbing victim’s pocket was in his writing.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDid your father ever mention anyone named Annie?”
    Meghan stared at Mac.
    Annie!
She could hear her father teasing as he called,
Meg . . . Meggie . . . Meghan Anne . . . Annie . . .
    She thought in horror,
Annie
was always his pet name for me.
18
    O n Tuesday morning, from the front windows of her home in Scottsdale, Arizona, Frances Grolier could see the first glimmer of light begin to define the McDowell Mountains, light that she knew would become strong and brilliant, constantly changing the hues and tones and colors reflected on those masses of rock.
    She turned and walked across the long room to the back windows. The house bordered on the vast Pima Indian reservation and offered a view of the primordial desert, stark and open, edged by Camelback Mountain; desert and mountain now mysteriously lighted in the shadowy pink glow that preceded the sunrise.
    At fifty-six, Frances had somehow managed to retain a fey quality that suited her thin face, thick mass of graying brown hair and wide, compelling eyes. She never bothered to soften the deep lines around her eyes and mouth with makeup. Tall and reedy, she was most comfortable in slacks and a loose smock. She shunned personal publicity, but her work as a sculptor was known in art circles, particularly for her consummate skill in molding faces. The sensitivity with which she captured below-the-surface expressions was the hallmark of her talent.
    Long ago she had made a decision and stuck by it without regret. Her lifestyle suited her well. But now . . .
    She shouldn’t have expected Annie to understand. She should have kept her word and told her