It was too late. The damage was done. Mitch thought, He sounds just like Connie Gray. Like a jealous lover. The hairs on Mitch's forearms began to stand on end.
"Remind me, Mr. Merrivale. Where were you the day of the storm on Nantucket? The day that Lenny Brookstein went missing."
John blinked twice. "I was in Boston on business. It was a pre-arranged trip. I flew out early and I was gone all day. All my statements are in the file, if you'd like to check them."
"Thank you," said Mitch. "I'll do that."
It was only later, after he'd paid the check and John Merrivale had returned to work, that it struck him.
He didn't stammer.
When I asked him for his alibi that day, his speech was perfect.
GRACE LAY BACK ON THE BED, the little bottle of oil in her hand. It smelled heady and comforting, like rosemary wafting on a warm summer breeze.
The label said: WARNING: TOXIC. DO NOT INGEST.
Grace thought about the bastard who had raped her.
She thought about the innocent life inside her.
She thought about Lenny. When she closed her eyes, she could hear his voice.
What about children? I suppose you'll want to be a mother?
And her own. Not really. I'm happy as we are. There's nothing missing.
Lying on the bed, Grace realized that she had sacrificed motherhood for Lenny. She'd sacrificed everything for him, for their love, and she was still sacrificing. How could he have betrayed her with Connie? How? She felt angry and humiliated. She tried to hate him, to let go of his memory, but she couldn't.
It's no use. I still love him. I'll always love him.
She opened the bottle and swallowed the bitter liquid.
I wonder how long it will take.
"YOU OKAY IN THERE, LADY?"
The super was knocking on Grace's door.
"Do you need a doctor?"
Grace couldn't hear him. Pain tore through her body like a giant razor blade, slicing into her flesh, her nerves. She screamed. Blood poured out of her. Her limbs began to shake and dance as the seizure took hold of her body, contorting her arms and legs like a sadistic puppeteer.
The super unlocked the door. "Jesus Christ. I'm calling an ambulance!"
Grace didn't hear him. She was deafened by the sound of her own screams.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SHE HEARD VOICES.
"Linda? Linda!"
"Still no response. She's flatlining."
"Shock her again."
Grace wondered, Who's Linda? She felt the weight of the paddles pressing on her ribs, then an indescribable pain, like a kebab skewer being driven into her heart.
She fainted.
SHE WAS IN A PALE GREEN room with a gray, checkered ceiling. There were needles in her arms. Someone was talking to her. A nurse.
"Linda?"
Grace remembered. She'd had to abandon Lizzie Woolley and move on to another of her fake identities. I'm Linda Reynolds. I'm a thirty-two-year-old waitress from Chicago.
"Welcome back." The nurse smiled. "Do you know where you are, Linda?"
"Hospital." Grace's throat was so dry and sore, the word was barely audible. "Water."
"Sure." The nurse pressed a call button. "Just hold on a couple more minutes. The doctor will know whether it's safe for you to drink right now. He's on his way. Is there anyone else I can call for you, honey? A relative or a friend?"
Grace shook her head. Nobody.
She fell back to sleep.
SHE WAS IN EAST HAMPTON AT a July Fourth party. She was six years old. Her father had scooped her up in his arms and placed her on his shoulders. Grace felt like a princess in her powder-blue, ruffled party dress, with red, white and blue ribbons in her blond hair.
One of her dad's friends called out to them. "Hey, Cooper. Who's that gorgeous young lady you're with?"
"Only the prettiest girl in New York." Cooper Knowles grinned. "When you get married, Gracie, it'll be to a king. You'll have the world at your feet, my angel. The world at your feet!" He tugged on her new blue party shoes. Grace laughed.
The laugh turned into Lenny's laugh. They were on the terrace at their home in Palm Beach. Lenny was reading the newspaper.
"Look at this, Gracie." He chuckled. "You see what they're calling me. 'Leonard Brookstein, King of Wall Street!' How does it feel to be married to a king?"
"It feels wonderful, my darling. I love you."
"I love you, too."
"Linda. LINDA."
The spell was broken.
"This is Dr. Brewer. He's on our psychiatric team. He's just gonna have a little chat with you, okay?"
DAYS PASSED. DOCTORS AND PSYCHIATRISTS CAME and went. DIY abortions were a dime a dozen, sadly, but Linda Reynolds's case was unusual enough to attract attention.
"Pennyroyal poisoning? What the fuck is that?"
"Some crazy herb. Women used it for abortions in medieval times. But it's gruesome. Ingesting the essential oil can cause renal failure, acute uterine hemorrhage. Seizures."
The doctors told Grace it was a miracle she had lived. The pennyroyal had done its job of killing her baby, but her liver would be permanently weakened. Grace didn't care. She tried to cry for the baby, to feel sad for it, but she couldn't even do that. She knew if she looked back, she would crumble. All that mattered was that she was alive, recovering, growing stronger. She could feel it in her body. Soon she would be able to get out of here. Her work was not yet done.
IN THE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR, JUAN BENITEZ whispered to his friend Jose Gallo.
"Es ella. Estoy seguro."
Jose poked his head around the door of Grace's room. "No way."
Juan and Jose were both janitors. Not much exciting ever happened during their workdays, mopping the hospital halls. But that was no reason for Juan to go making things up.