"I don't like that," she said.

"Like what, baby?"

And then over Matt's shoulder she could see Leila in the doorway. Her green eyes were dark with anger. In a second, she was across the room, pulling Matt's hair so hard his head yanked back, shouting words at him that Elizabeth didn't understand. And then she screamed, "Bad enough what those other bastards did to me, but I'll kill you before you start on her!"

Matt's feet hit the floor with a thud. He pulled to one side, trying to get away from Leila. But she kept twisting his long hair, so that every move he made hurt. He began to yell back at Leila and try to hit her.

Mama must have heard the noise, because her snoring stopped. She came into the room, a sheet wrapped around her, her eyes circled and bleary, her pretty red hair disheveled. "What's going on here?" she mumbled in a sleepy, angry voice, and Elizabeth saw the bruise on her forehead.

"You better tell this crazy kid of yours that when I'm just being nice and reading to her sister, she better not act like there's something wrong with it." Matt sounded mad, but Elizabeth could tell he was scared.

"And you'd better tell this filthy child molester to get out of here or I'll call the police." With a final tug, Leila released Matt's hair, stepped around him and sat on the cot with Elizabeth, hugging her tight.

Mama started to yell at Matt; then Leila started to yell at Mama, and in the end, Mama and Matt went to their room and kept on fighting; then there were long silences. When they came out of the room, they were dressed and said everything was a misunderstanding and as long as the girls were together, they'd just go out for a while.

After they left, Leila said, "Want to open a can of soup and maybe fix us a hamburger? I've got to do some thinking." Obediently Elizabeth went into the kitchen and prepared the meal. They ate in silence, and Elizabeth realized how glad she was that Mama and Matt were gone. When they were home, they were either drinking and kissing or fighting and kissing. Either way it was awful.

Finally, Leila said, "She'll never change."

"Who?"

"Mama. She's a boozer, and if it isn't one guy it will be another, until she just runs out of all the men left alive. But I can't leave you with Matt."

Leave! Leila couldn't be leaving…

"So get packed, "Leila said. "If that creep is starting to paw you, you're not safe here. We're going to take the late bus to New York." Then she reached over and tousled Elizabeth 's hair. "God alone knows how I'll manage when we get there, Sparrow, but I promise I'll take care of you."

Later, Elizabeth was to remember that moment so clearly. Leila's eyes, emerald green again, the anger gone, but with a steely look in them; Leila's slim, taut body and catlike grace; Leila's brilliant red hair brightened even more by the light from the overhead fixture; Leila's rich, throaty voice saying, "Don't be scared, Sparrow. It's time to shake the dust of our old Kentucky home off our feet!"

Then with a defiant laugh, Leila began to sing, "Weep no more, my lady…"

Saturday, August 29, 1987

One

Pan American flight 111 from Rome began to circle on its final approach to Kennedy Airport. Elizabeth pressed her forehead against the glass, drinking in the brilliance of the sun gleaming on the ocean, the distant outline of the Manhattan skyscrapers. This was the moment she had once loved at the end of a trip, the sense of coming home. But today she passionately wanted to be able to stay on the plane, to go wherever its next destination might be.

"It's a lovely sight, isn't it?" When she'd boarded the plane, the grandmotherly-looking woman next to her had smiled pleasantly and opened her book. Elizabeth had been relieved; the last thing she'd anted was a seven-hour conversation with a stranger. But now it was all right. They'd be landing in a few minutes. She agreed that it was a lovely sight.

"This was my third trip to Italy," her seatmate continued. "But it's the last time I'll go in August. Tourists all over the place. And so terribly hot. What countries did you visit?"

The plane banked and began its descent. Elizabeth decided it was just as easy to give a direct answer as to be noncommittal. "I'm an actress. I was working on a film in Venice."

"How exciting. My first impression was that you reminded me a little of Candy Bergen. You're just about as tall as she is and have the same lovely blond hair and blue-gray eyes. Should I know your name?"

"Not at all."

There was a faint bump as the plane landed on the runway and began taxiing. To deter any more questions, Elizabeth made a business of pulling her carry-on bag from under the seat and checking its contents. If Leila were here, she thought, there wouldn't be any question about identifying her. Everyone recognized Leila LaSalle. But Leila would have been in first class, not coach.

Would have been. After all these months, it was time the reality of her death set in.

A newsstand just beyond the Customs enclosure had stacks of the early-afternoon edition of the Globe. She couldn't help seeing the headline: Trial Begins September 8. The lead read: "A visibly angry Judge Michael Harris scathingly denied further postponements in the murder trial of multimillionaire Ted Winters." The rest of the front page was filled with a blowup of Ted's face. There was a stunned bitterness in his eyes, a rigid set to his mouth. It was a picture snapped after he'd learned that the grand jury had indicted him for the murder of his fiancee, Leila LaSalle.

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…