Free A Deadly Affection by Cuyler Overholt

front door, “you said that Miss Hauptfuhrer found Mrs. Miner standing over her father’s body. Did she tell you why she happened to come down to his office when she did?”
    I thought he hesitated slightly before answering. “She heard screaming through the heating vent.”
    â€œYou mean she actually heard her father being attacked?” I asked in horror.
    â€œNah, someone screaming for help.”
    I pulled up short. “Screaming for help? Who was it?”
    â€œShe says it was Mrs. Miner.”
    â€œMrs. Miner was screaming for help?”
    â€œSo she says.”
    â€œBut why would she scream for help if she’d just—”
    â€œI’ve seen it before,” he broke in with a shrug. “Something sets ’em off, they pull the trigger, then they get hysterical when they realize what they’ve done. It’s as if for just that split second when they commit the crime, the devil is talking in their ear.” He pulled the door open.
    Yes, I supposed it could have happened just like that: a moment of unpremeditated violence, triggered by thoughts of blame and revenge. Only in this case, the voice in the killer’s ear may very well have been my own. “Good-bye for now, Dr. Summerford,” the detective called after me, as I stumbled past him out the door. “I’ll be talking to you again, real soon.”

Chapter Five
    I broke through the handful of lingering gawkers and lurched blindly down the sidewalk, having no idea where I was going but desperate to get away. Images of the slain doctor seemed to be burned into the backs of my eyelids, while bits of my conversation with the detective kept repeating over and over in my mind like an endless organ-grinder’s tune. Worse than the gore, though, worse than the memory of Eliza’s dazed face or the detective’s stony conviction, was the fear that I, once again, was at least partly responsible.
    I didn’t know what I was going to say to Eliza when I saw her at the police court. If only there was someone I could confide in beforehand, someone who could assure me that things weren’t as bad as they seemed and tell me what I ought to do now. But who? Not my mother, of course, And certainly not Papa.
    At the end of the street, I turned left to avoid a baby carriage and, lacking any clear destination, continued walking south. A persistent wind lashed at my eyes, blurring the sidewalk under my feet as one block ran into another. It wasn’t fair, I thought angrily, wiping the tears away. I wasn’t the one who’d killed the doctor. I may have failed to recognize Eliza’s state of mind—may even have provoked her, unintentionally—but I wasn’t the one who’d raised the sword and struck a man dead. Why should my career, my professional reputation—and perhaps worst of all, my father’s opinion of me—be wrecked because of someone I barely knew? Perhaps I ought to tell the detective about Eliza’s lost baby after all, without mentioning my advice to her, and let Eliza deal with the consequences of her actions. I could go back there right now and be done with it.
    But I knew that I wouldn’t. I couldn’t just abandon her. Because if I did and she was sentenced to life in prison or worse, a piece of me would have to go with her.
    I’d come to the end of another block. Looking up at the street sign, I discovered that I’d reached the intersection of Madison and Seventy-Third Street. I squeezed my book bag against my chest in a spasm of relief; suddenly, I knew just where to go. I turned left and ran down the sidewalk, my legs still wobbly from shock. I was over an hour late, but with any luck, he’d still be at home. The railed stoop of his brownstone reached out in welcome up ahead. Bounding toward it, I hopped up the steps and rapped sharply on the door.
    The maid who answered my knock assured me that Professor Bogard was still in. I