Free No Place Like Home by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

everything and how today I went out to see Lizzie and there was a picture—”
    â€œWhy don’t you tell Alex all about it after your ride, Jack?” I interrupted.
    â€œGood idea,” Alex said. He checked the saddle, but found nothing to adjust. I thought he looked atme quizzically, but didn’t make any comment. “Jack just had a sandwich, but I’ll start lunch for us,” I said.
    â€œHow about having it on the patio?” Alex suggested. “It’s too nice to be inside.”
    â€œThat would be fun,” I said hurriedly and headed into the house. I rushed upstairs. My father had redesigned the second floor to have two large corner rooms that could be used for any purpose. When I was little, one of them was his office, the other a playroom for me. I had directed the movers to place my desk in Daddy’s office. The desk is a nondescript antique I purchased when I had my interior decorating business, and I chose it for one primary reason. One of the large file drawers has a concealed panel that is secured by a combination lock that looks like a decoration. The panel can only be opened if you know the combination.
    I yanked the files out of the drawer, tapped out the code with my index finger, and the panel opened. The thick file about “Little Lizzie Borden” was there. I pulled it out, opened it, and grabbed the newspaper photo that had been taped to the post in the barn.
    If Jack ended up telling Alex about it, Alex, of course, would ask to see it. If Jack then realized he had promised me not to talk about it to Alex, he’d probably blurt that out, too. “I forgot, I promised Mommy I wouldn’t tell . . . ”
    And I would have to cover with yet more lies.
    Putting the picture in the pocket of my slacks, I went downstairs. Knowing Alex loved it, I hadbought smoked salmon at the supermarket. In these six months, he’d given Jack a taste for it, too. Now I fixed it on salad plates with capers and onions and slices of the hard boiled eggs I had prepared while Jack was having his sandwich. The wrought-iron patio set Alex had bought so that we could celebrate my birthday with champagne and tea sandwiches was now on the patio. I set out place mats and silver, then the salads and iced tea, along with heated French bread.
    When I called out that everything was ready, Alex left the pony tethered to a post of the enclosure. She was still saddled, so that meant that he was planning to give Jack more time with the pony.
    When they came to the patio, I could have cut with a knife the change in the emotional atmosphere. Alex looked serious, and Jack was on the verge of tears. There was a moment of silence, then, in a level tone, Alex asked, “Was there any reason you weren’t planning to tell me about the picture you found in the barn, Ceil?”
    â€œI didn’t want to upset you,” I said. “It’s only one of the pictures of the Barton family that was in the newspaper.”
    â€œYou don’t think it upsets me to learn by chance that someone was trespassing here during the night? You don’t think the police should know about that?”
    There was only one answer that might be plausible: “Have you seen today’s papers?” I asked Alex quietly. “Do you think I want any follow-up on it? For God’s sake, give me a break.”
    â€œCeil, Jack tells me he went out to see his pony before you woke up. Suppose he had come across someone in the barn? I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t some kind of nut loose around here.”
    Exactly the worry I had but could not share. “Jack wouldn’t have been able to get out if you had reset the alarm,” I said sharply.
    â€œMommy, why are you mad at Alex?” Jack asked.
    â€œWhy indeed, Jack?” Alex asked as he pushed back his chair and went into the house.
    I didn’t know whether to follow him and apologize, or to offer to