On the Street Where you Live by Mary Higgins Clark

during the televised new conference delighted him: Do you think Martha’s killer is a reincarnation?
    But then the prosecutor’s brusque dismissal of the possibility affronted him.
    I am reincarnated, he thought. We have become one.
    I can prove it
    I shall prove it.
    By late afternoon he had decided the way in which he would reveal the truth about himself to the skeptic.
    A simple ordinary postcard would be sufficient, he thought. A crude drawing, no better than what a child might send.
    He would mail it on Saturday.
    On his way to church.

nineteen ________________
    T OMMY D UGGAN and Pete Walsh were on the porch waiting for Emily when she arrived home.
    Tommy brushed aside her apology for keeping them waiting. “We’re a little early, Ms. Graham.” He introduced Pete, who promptly reached down and picked up the bag of books Clayton Wilcox had given Emily.
    â€œYou must be planning to do a lot of reading, Ms. Graham,” he commented as she unlocked the door.
    â€œI guess I am.”
    They followed her into the foyer. “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” she suggested. “I’d love a cup of tea, and maybe I can persuade you to join me.”
    Pete Walsh accepted. Tommy Duggan passed onthe tea, but could not resist helping himself to a couple of the chocolate-chip cookies she put out on a plate.
    They sat at the kitchen table. The big window afforded a stark view of the excavation site and the piles of dirt around it. The words C RIME S CENE, N O T RESPASSING, were printed on the tapes that cordoned off the area. They could see the policeman guarding the site looking out the window of the cabana.
    â€œI see that the forensic team is gone,” Emily said. “I hope that means you’re through with the investigation here? I want the contractor to get that pit filled in. I’ve decided I’m not going ahead with a pool.”
    â€œThat’s just what we want to discuss, Ms. Graham,” Tommy said. “While the backhoe is here, we’d like to have the rest of your yard dug up.”
    Emily stared at him. “What purpose would that serve?”
    â€œA very important one. You should have the reassurance of knowing that you will never face another shock like the one you experienced yesterday.”
    â€œSurely you don’t believe there are other bodies buried out there?” The shock in her voice was unmistakable.
    â€œMs. Graham, I know you watched the prosecutor on TV, because you phoned in about the ring that was found.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen you heard him say that after your—What is it, great-great-grandaunt?—disappeared in 1891, two other young women vanished from Spring Lake.”
    â€œDear God, do you think they may be buried out there?” Emily gestured toward the backyard.
    â€œWe’d like to find out. We’d also like to get a blood sample from you so that we can verify through DNA that it really is Madeline Shapley’s finger bone.”
    Tom Duggan realized that he was suddenly feeling the absolute exhaustion that sets in when you’ve barely slept in a day and a half. He felt dull and heavy eyed. He felt sorry for Emily Graham. She looked shocked and distressed.
    They had run a check on her yesterday—top criminal defense attorney going to one of those fancy law firms in Manhattan. Divorced from a jerk who tried to horn in on her when she came into money. Victim of a stalker who was now in a psychiatric facility. But someone had taken her picture the night she arrived in Spring Lake and slipped it under the door.
    Anyone could have looked her up on the Internet and found out about the stalker. There’d been a lot of publicity when they finally caught him. Some stupid kid from around here might have thought it funny to try to scare her. The Spring Lake cops were good. They’d keep their eyes out for anyone hanging around here. Maybe they’d be able to lift fingerprints off the