normal.”
“I’m assuming if you had anything to tell me, you would have,” Faith said, hating to destroy the mood.
Emma nodded. “I really think it’s over—at last.”
Faith desperately wanted to believe her—and knew she didn’t.
“You can’t wear this. You’ll have to take one of mine,” Emma said, hanging Faith’s coat back in the closet. “You can get it when you’re over this way sometime. Here. This will do.” She took out a fur-lined raincoat from Searle. It had a hood and was appropriately scarlet. Emma had worn it to the luncheon the other day.
Faith was about to ask for something simpler, something cheaper, but just as Emma never had to buy an umbrella on the street corner, she wouldn’t have a Burlington Coat Factory special, either.
“Thank you. I’ll take good care of it and bring it back tomorrow.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve been wearing it so much lately, I’m tired of it. Keep it as long as you want.”
“Call me?” Faith asked.
“I promise,” Emma replied.
Descending in the elevator, Faith thought about how her hugs with Emma had progressed from swift affection to this last one, a kind of bear hug, each one intent on reassuring the other—reassuring and comforting.
Outside, the rain had let up slightly, but there was enough for Faith to be grateful for the hood on Emma’s coat. Damn, she had meant to give Emma back both the key to Fox’s apartment and the key to this one, which Emma had given her for the party preparations.
She’d do it when she returned the coat.
Halfway down the block, she looked over her shoulder and noticed a dark car pull out from across the street near the intersection, switch on its high beams, and accelerate. Parking on her side was for-bidden at this time of day and there weren’t any cars.
No one wanted to chance a stiff ticket, or worse—the boot. She walked faster, feeling irrationally nervous at the way the car had now slowed down, slowed down to her speed. Suddenly, it swerved up onto the sidewalk and aimed straight for her. She screamed and tried to run toward the building, but the car cut her off, blinding her with its headlights, chasing her into the street. The surface was slick and shiny from the recent downpour. She ran as fast as she could, but there was no escape. Her heart was pounding and the cold night air stabbed her lungs as she fought for breath. She could feel the heat of the engine. If she reached her arm back, she was sure she’d be able to touch the hood.
I am not going to let this happen, she thought. I am not going to die this way!
She plunged to the right and back up on the sidewalk. The car followed, taking down a small tree gir-dled with wire mesh. If she could just make it back to the Stansteads’, but the car cut off her retreat. All the surrounding buildings were town houses. No doormen.
No open doors. It was all happening so fast! She couldn’t think. Her heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled and her shoe came off. If she fell, she’d be dead. She kicked the other away and splashed on through the icy puddles.
The car bore down upon her. She had only one chance. With a last burst of speed, she raced directly in front of it, crossed the street, and rolled between two parked cars, inching her way under the first one.
Brakes squealed. The car stopped. For a moment, she thought the driver would bash into the parked cars, or worse—come after her on foot. She shut her eyes tight, waiting for the slam of a car door. Waiting for a
hand to reach out and grab her. Waiting for a hand with a gun. Nothing. Then it sped off. The driver. The killer.
She lay in the filthy runoff, eyes still closed, panting.
There had been only one person in the car. She’d been able to see that much. It looked like a man, but a man with long hair. A man like Harvey Fuchs.
“I slipped and fell,” she spoke before the bewildered doorman could voice his alarm.
The elevator rose slowly. Emma’s coat would never be the same. Nor would Faith.
Emma opened the door in surprise. She was in her slip.
“Faith! What—”
“Someone just tried to kill me with a car. Tried to kill me, thinking I was you.”
Emma in the distinctive Red Riding Hood coat.
Emma the real target.
“Me? Kill me?” Emma looked as if she was about to faint. She sank onto the seat of a Thonet chair set against the wall.
“I had the hood of the coat up, so whoever was driving must have assumed it was you. We’re about the same size, and I was coming from your building.” The adrenaline that had flooded Faith’s body as she had fought for her life still coursed through her body. She was standing in her stocking feet, numb with cold, dripping dirty water onto one of the Stanstead’s Oriental rugs, but she felt as if she could take on a tiger or two. She was alive. She had saved herself. Now she had to save Emma, save her from herself, save her from the forces of evil. Faith tossed off the scarlet coat, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.
“Emma.” She tried hard not to shout. “Emma! This is very, very serious now. It’s not just Christmas cards
and Dumpster drops. They tried to
“Michael. Michael will be waiting at the party and wondering where I am. I have to get ready,” Emma jumped up and looked about the hall wildly, as if expecting her husband to emerge from the closet.
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Emma, I know this isn’t something you want to think about, but you
She’d told Emma the truth. Faith was positive the driver hadn’t meant to inspire fear—though it had succeeded. He meant murder. They must think Emma knew something she didn’t—or didn’t know she knew.
She followed Emma into the bedroom, leaving little wet marks on the carpet as she padded after her. At the moment, she didn’t have the energy to both reason with Emma and think about getting dry.
“Look, if Michael had any idea that you were going through something like this and not telling him, how do you think he’d react? He’s your husband, for God’s sake! Somebody’s not just blackmailing you now!
He’d want to protect you, save you! Men are like
this—especially about their wives!” Faith knew she was ranting, but her words seemed to have little effect on Emma, who was zipping up her dress and slipping into her shoes, apparently oblivious of her friend—and the fact that she had put on a Versace white linen shift more suitable for Portofino in July than Manhattan in December. She seemed to be in a dream. Drugged, but Faith was sure it wasn’t pharmaceutical. It was Emma’s own particular drug. She’d simply shut down.
Faith grabbed her shoulders and sat her down on the end of the bed.
“Emma, you’ve got to listen to me!” Emma’s eyes—so startling blue, deep blue like a sea of scilla in spring— focused on Faith’s desperate expression. “I
“Tell Michael. Start there. Tell him tonight, when you come home. Tell him everything.”
There was a long silence and Faith wasn’t sure she’d gotten through; then Emma stood up and walked to her
