Danielle Steel - 44 Charles Street

“Thank you” was all she could muster, and hung up. She leaned out of the patrol car then and threw up.

They drove Francesca to the station and had her sign her statement. They did a composite computer sketch of Brad, according to her description, and put out an all-points bulletin for him. And then they called Eileen’s mother and told her, after Francesca told them where the number was in her desk. The house was locked up after that. They said Eileen’s mother wanted her cremated and her ashes sent to San Diego. There was going to be no funeral or memorial service in New York. She had no real friends except her roommates and the men she met on the Internet. In the end, her Internet obsession had killed her. Francesca knew that if it hadn’t been Brad, it had been someone else she met online. She took too many risks. Francesca couldn’t believe it, but the sweet little girl next door with the freckles and red hair in pigtails was dead. She had looked so innocent and cute the day Francesca had left. It had been the last time she’d seen her as she waved goodbye from the steps.

The police took Francesca to the Hotel Gansevoort. She took a room, and sat there shaking. She didn’t want to go back to the house. And it seemed like hours later when Chris called her. She had lost all track of time. He was on his way in from the airport and wanted to know where she was. She told him, and he was there a few minutes later. She opened the door to him and nearly fell into his arms. He stood there and held her, and then sat down on the bed with her as Francesca cried.

“Stupid kid” was all he could bring himself to say. He was angry and sad all at the same time. And if it hadn’t been Eileen, it could have been his wife a dozen times. She had just been lucky so far, but one day she wouldn’t be. One day she would wind up like Eileen, only with a needle in her arm, and Ian would be heart broken. He hated them for the risks they took, the people they hurt, the hearts they broke, all the tears that were shed for them. Francesca cried herself to sleep in his arms that night. He lay on the bed next to her, and held her as he had Ian so many times. And in the morning, Francesca got a call from the police. They had Brad. They had run fingerprints on him and from the scene. The prints matched. It was him. They would do DNA tests, but all the puzzle pieces fit. The evidence was conclusive so far. Brad had killed Eileen.

FRANCESCA WOKE UP feeling groggy and confused, unsure if what she thought had happened had been a dream. She had fallen asleep in her clothes on the bed next to Chris in the room she had taken at the Hotel Gansevoort. As she opened her eyes, she turned to look at him. He was still lying next to her, and he was awake.

“Did I dream it?” He shook his head. It wasn’t possible. That couldn’t happen. It wasn’t fair. Eileen was dead. Her Internet insanity had killed her. But it was more than just that, it was Eileen’s appalling judgment, her addiction to bad men, and her lifetime familiarity with abuse. All of that had contributed to her sad end. They all knew lots of nice people who had met each other online, fallen in love, and gotten married. But mixed in with the good ones were terrifyingly bad ones, and Brad had been one of those. And Eileen had become too addicted to him and the abuse to save herself. She had gone back for more one last time. One time too many.

Chris had checked, and Brad was still being held on suspicion of her murder. They wanted Francesca and Chris to identify him in a lineup, and then they would arraign him the next day. They had already started the DNA tests from his skin, to match traces found under Eileen’s nails. They would have partial results in three days. Her body was at the morgue, and after the autopsy she was going to be cremated, but not for several days. With her heart in her shoes, Francesca couldn’t help asking herself now what did any of it matter. Whatever they did, she’d still be dead. She was such a lost girl. She kept thinking of her making papier-mâché puppets with Ian, and as Francesca thought of the scene the day before, and identifying her, she got up and went to the bathroom and vomited again. She was kneeling on the bathroom floor, as Chris rubbed her back, and held her hair, and then handed her a wet towel.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her face with the towel.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry for her. Abusive relationships are a terrible thing. Psychological abuse is almost as bad and just as addictive. I think people stay in it, or go back, so they can turn it around, and convince their abuser that they’re nice people and don’t deserve it. They always get blamed. And sometimes they get killed. She just wasn’t strong enough, or healthy enough I guess, not to see him again.” They both knew it happened all too often. Francesca went back to the bed and lay down. The thought of getting up was too much for her. She wanted to lie there forever, as Chris sat on the bed next to her and stroked her hair.

* * *

Marya and Charles-Edouard had just come back from a walk in her garden, and were starting to make breakfast when Chris called on Marya’s cell phone. It was sitting on her desk, and she didn’t rush to get it. She wasn’t expecting any important calls, she wanted to enjoy Charles-Edouard, and she was still in vacation mode. She didn’t recognize the caller’s number when she picked up her phone, but she answered anyway, and was surprised to hear Chris’s voice.

“Hi, Marya,” he said in a hoarse, somber voice. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and had watched Francesca for most of the night. She had woken several times in tears. He was tired and sad.

“What a nice surprise,” Marya said happily. “How’s Ian? Where are you both? I’m still in Vermont.” She hadn’t spoken to him since they’d all left New York for the summer.

“I’m in New York with Francesca,” Chris said quietly, as Francesca listened. She had asked him to make the call. “Ian’s at the Vineyard. I’m going back for him in a couple of days.”

“Is something wrong? Is Francesca okay?” It seemed odd to Marya that he would be with her, or said it that way, and he sounded upset.

“She got back yesterday, and I’m sorry to call you, but something terrible happened at the house. Eileen was killed a few days ago, probably by Brad.”

“Oh my God, how awful.” Tears instantly filled Marya’s eyes, imagining it. She was such a sweet, silly, innocent young girl. Charles-Edouard was watching her and was instantly concerned, with a question in his eyes. “Did Francesca find her?” She hoped not. She couldn’t imagine a more traumatic scene than that.

“She thought something was wrong when she walked in. She called me, and I told her to wait outside and call the police. They found her. She was dead in her room. He strangled and beat her. They have him in custody now. We have to identify him today.” He didn’t tell her that Francesca had identified the body the day before. Francesca was lying on the bed, listening to their conversation, with her eyes closed, deathly pale, and he was holding her hand. They were two very sad friends, and he was glad to be there with her.

“Do you want me to come down? We could be there in a few hours.” He noticed the “we” but thought she was confused, with all the strong emotions of the terrible news about Eileen.

“There’s not much you can do. We’re okay.” He said it, but neither of them felt it.

“Are you staying at the house?” The idea of that was shocking, and she wasn’t sure what they would do.

“We’re at the Gansevoort,” he said calmly. And the police had given them the name of a service that specialized in cleaning up crime scenes. Once they had all the evidence they needed, and had taken photographs, the service would come in and strip any evidence of the crime. It would take a few days. If necessary, they would repaint the room. That happened more frequently when there were gunshots involved. It sounded like a grim job to him. “Everything should be in order by the time you get back.” But in order or not, Eileen would never be there again. Francesca had already decided that morning that she didn’t want anyone else in that room. She never wanted to see it again herself, it would make her too sad. She had genuinely liked Eileen, despite her foolishness with men, and had taken her under her wing and into her home. And now she was dead.

“I’m so sorry,” Marya said again. “I don’t want to bother Francesca, but if there’s anything I can do, call me. I’ll get in the car and be there in a few hours if it will help. I’ll try to come back in a few days. Did someone call her parents?”

“The police. They’re cremating the body after the autopsy, to send the ashes to her parents. There’s no funeral in New York.”

“Maybe we can have a little service of our own,” Marya said vaguely, too shocked to think of anything right now. She reminded him to send her love to Francesca, and they hung up.

“What happened?” Charles-Edouard asked her with a look of concern when she hung up.

“Eileen, the little girl on the top floor whom you met, was killed at the house. Beaten and strangled.”

“By a burglar?”

“They think it was by a man she went out with. They have him in custody and are charging him with the murder. He beat her up very badly twice before.” Marya looked sick. She sat down on the couch with a distant expression, and Charles-Edouard sat down next to her and put an arm around her and held her. It was a sad beginning to the first day of their new life. Beginnings and endings, the birth of a relationship and the death of a young woman. The bittersweetness of life. And this was very bitter. Marya looked up at him and then sank into his arms and cried.

* * *

The lineup at the police station for the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth Street took forever to begin, and they were a motley group of men as they were led out. There were two tall ones, a short one, and three of medium height. All had tattoos. One had long hair. Three were being held on other charges, one was an undercover cop, one was on parole, and one was Brad. They both recognized him instantly as he stood in profile and full face as he was directed. The men in the lineup stood there shuffling, on the other side of a two-way mirror, and Chris and Francesca confirmed the identification without a doubt. It was him. And then the men were led out. It was over. And he would be arraigned the next day. After that, Chris and Francesca were free to leave.