As the cab sped toward the city, Elizabeth read the story-a rehash of the details of Leila's death and the evidence against Ted. Pictures of Leila were splashed over the next three pages of the paper: Leila at a premiere, with her first husband; Leila on safari, with her second husband; Leila with Ted; Leila accepting her Oscar-stock publicity shots. One of them caught Elizabeth 's eye. In it, Leila had a hint of softness in her smile, a suggestion of vulnerability that contrasted with the arrogant tilt of her chin, the mocking expression in her eyes. Half the young girls in America had imitated that expression, copied Leila's way of tossing her hair back, of smiling over her shoulder…

"Here we are, lady."

Startled, Elizabeth looked up. The cab had stopped in front of the Hamilton Arms, at Fifty-seventh Street and Park Avenue. The paper slid off her lap. She forced herself to try to sound calm. "I'm so sorry. I gave you the wrong address. I want to go to Eleventh and Fifth."

"I already turned off the meter."

"Then start a new fare." Her hands shook as she fumbled for her wallet. She sensed the doorman was approaching and did not raise her eyes. She did not want to be recognized. Unthinkingly she had given Leila's address. This was the building where Ted had murdered Leila. Here, in a drunken rage, he had pushed her off the terrace of her apartment.

Elizabeth began to shiver uncontrollably at the image she could not banish from her mind: Leila's beautiful body, wrapped in the white satin pajamas, her long red hair cascading behind her, plummet-fog forty stories to the concrete courtyard.

And always the questions… Was she conscious? How much did she realize?

How awful those last seconds must have been for her!

If I had stayed with her, Elizabeth thought, it never would have happened…