Just Take My Heart - Mary Higgins Clark [3]
Then she stopped the car abruptly The door to Raines's garage was open and so was the driver's door of her car, exactly as it had been this morning. She never left the garage door open and certainly wouldn't be the kind to leave a car door open all day. Maybe I should mind my own business, Suzie thought, but I can't.
She turned into the driveway, stopped, and got out of her car. Uncertainly, she walked into the garage. It was small and she had to partially close the door of Raines's car to reach the kitchen door. By now she was sure something was wrong. A glance into the car had revealed a pocketbook on the front passenger seat and a suitcase on the floor in the back.
When there was no response to her knock on the kitchen door, she waited, then, unable to go away unsatisfied, turned the knob. The door was unlocked. Worried that she could end up being arrested for trespassing, something still made Suzie open the door and step into the kitchen.
Then she began to scream.
Natalie Raines was crumpled on the kitchen floor, her white cable-knit sweater matted with blood. Her eyes were closed but a soft, hurt cry was coming from her lips.
Suzie knelt beside her as she grabbed the cell phone from her
pocket and dialed 911. “80 Walnut Street, Closter,” she screamed to the operator. “Natalie Raines. I think she's been shot. Hurry. Hurry. She's dying.”
She dropped the phone. Stroking Natalie's head, she said soothingly, “Ms. Raines, you'll be all right. They'll send an ambulance. It will be here any minute, I promise.”
The sound from Natalie's lips ended. An instant later her heart stopped.
Her last thought was the sentence Blanche DuBois utters at the end of the play: “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
Just Take My Heart
3
She had dreamt of Mark last night, one of those vague, unsatisfying dreams, in which she could hear his voice and was wandering through a dark, cavernous house looking for him. Emily Kelly Wal?lace woke up with the familiar weight on her mind that often settled in after that kind of dream, but determined that she wouldn't let it grab hold of her today.
She glanced over at Bess, the nine-pound Maltese her brother Jack had given her for Christmas. Bess was fast asleep on the other pillow, and the sight of the dog brought immediate comfort. Emily slid out of bed, grabbed the warm robe that was always close at hand in the cold bedroom, picked up a reluctantly awakening Bess, and headed down the stairs of the home in Glen Rock, New Jersey, that she had lived in for most of her thirty-two years.
After a roadside bomb in Iraq had taken Mark's life three years ago, she decided she didn't want to stay in their apartment. About a year later, when she was recovering from her operation, her father, Sean Kelly, had signed over this modest, colonial-style house to her. Long a widower, he was remarrying and moving to Florida. “Em, it makes sense,” he had said. “No mortgage. Taxes not too bad. You know most of the neighbors. Give it a try. Then if you'd rather do something else, sell it and you'll have a down payment.”
But it has worked, Emily thought, as she hurried into the kitchen
with Bess under her arm. I love living here. The coffeepot set to a seven a.m. timer was squeaking its announcement that the coffee was ready to pour. Her breakfast consisted of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a toasted English muffin, and two cups of coffee. Carrying the second one, Emily hurried back upstairs to shower and change.
A new bright red turtleneck added a cheery note to last year's char?coal gray pants suit. Suitable for court, she decided, as well as an anti?dote for this overcast March morning and the dream of Mark. She took a moment to debate about leaving her straight brown hair loose on her shoulders, then decided to pin it up. A quick dash of mascara and lip liner followed. As she snapped on small silver earrings the thought crossed her mind that she never bothered to wear blush any?more. When she had been sick she'd never gone without it.
Downstairs again, she let Bess