One most valued piece in his collection, a thirty-inch-high sculpture of a horse and rider, an original Remington bronze, was still in the custody of the prosecutor’s office. That was what they said she had used to smash the back of Gary ’s head.

Sometimes, when she was sure her parents were asleep, Molly would tiptoe downstairs and stand in the doorway of the study and try to remember every detail of finding Gary.

Finding Gary. No matter how hard she tried, when she thought back to that night, there was no single moment when she remembered talking to him or approaching him as he sat at his desk. She had no memory of picking up that sculpture, of grasping the front legs of the horse and swinging it with enough force to cave in his skull. But that’s what they said she had done.

At home now, after another day in court, she could see the growing concern on her parents’ faces, and she could feel the increased protectiveness with which they hugged her. She stood stiffly inside their embraces, then stepped away and looked at them dispassionately.

Yes, a handsome couple-everyone called them that. Molly knew she looked like Ann, her mother. Walter Carpenter, her father, towered over both of them. His hair was silver now. It used to be blond. He called it his Viking streak. His grandmother had been Danish.

“I’m sure we’d all welcome a cocktail,” her father said as he led the way to the service bar.

Molly and her mother had a glass of wine, Philip requested a martini. As her father handed it to him, he said, “Philip, how damaging was Black’s testimony today?”

Molly could hear the forced, too-hearty tone of Philip Matthews’s answer: “I think we’ll be able to neutralize it when I get a crack at him.”

Philip Matthews, powerful thirty-eight-year-old defense lawyer, had become a kind of media star. Molly’s father had sworn he would get Molly the best money could buy, and that comparatively young as he was, Matthews was it. Hadn’t he gotten an acquittal for that broadcasting executive whose wife was murdered? Yes, Molly thought, but they didn’t find him covered with her blood.

She could feel the cloudiness in her head clearing a little, although she knew it would come back. It always did. But at this moment she could understand the way everything must seem to the people in the courtroom, especially to the jurors. “How much longer will the trial last?” she asked.

“About another three weeks,” Matthews told her.

“And then I’ll be found guilty,” she said matter-of-factly. “Do you think I am? I know that everybody else thinks I did it because I was so angry at him.” She sighed wearily. “Ninety percent of them think I’m lying about not remembering anything, and the other ten percent think I can’t remember that night because I’m crazy.”

Aware that they were following her, she walked down the hall to the study and pushed open the door. The sense of unreality was already closing in again. “Maybe I did do it,” she said, her voice expressionless. “That week at the Cape. I remember walking on the beach and thinking how unfair it all was. How after five years of marriage and losing the first baby and wanting another one so terribly, I’d finally gotten pregnant again, then had a miscarriage at four months. Remember? You came up from Florida, Mom and Dad, because you were worried that I was so heartbroken. Then only a month after losing my child, I picked up the phone and heard Annamarie Scalli talking to Gary, and I realized she was pregnant with his child. I was so angry, and so hurt. I remember thinking that God had punished the wrong person by taking my baby.”

Ann Carpenter put her arms around her daughter. This time Molly did not resist the embrace. “I’m so scared,” she whispered. “I’m so scared.”

Philip Matthews took Walter Carpenter’s arm. “Let’s go into the library,” he said. “I think we’d better face reality here. I think we’re going to have to consider a plea bargain.”

Molly stood before the judge and tried to concentrate as the prosecutor spoke. Philip Matthews had told her the prosecutor reluctantly agreed to allow her to plead guilty to manslaughter, which carried a ten year sentence, because the one weakness in his case was Annamarie Scalli, Gary Lasch’s pregnant mistress, who had not yet testified. Annamarie had told investigators that she was home alone that Sunday night.

“The prosecutor knows I’ll try to throw suspicion on Annamarie,” Matthews had explained to her. “She was angry and bitter at Gary, too. We might have had a crack at a hung jury, but if you were convicted, you’d be facing a life sentence. This way you’ll be out in as little as five.”

It was her turn to say the words that were expected of her. “Your Honor, while I cannot remember that horrible night, I acknowledge that the state’s evidence is strong and points to me. I accept that the evidence has shown that I killed my husband.” It’s a nightmare, Molly thought. I will wake up soon and be home and safe.

Fifteen minutes later after the Judge had imposed the ten year sentence she was led away in handcuffs toward the van that would transport her to Niantic Prison, the State Women’s Correctional Center.

Five and a Half Years Later

Gus Brandt, executive producer for the NAF Cable Network, looked up from his desk at 30 Rockefeller Plaza in Manhattan. Fran Simmons, whom he’d recently hired as an investigative reporter for the six o’clock news hour and for regular assignments to his hot new True Crime program, had just entered his office.

“The word’s in,” he said excitedly. “Molly Carpenter Lasch is being paroled from prison. She gets out next week.”

“She did get parole!” Fran exclaimed. “I’m so glad.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember the case. You were living in California six years ago. Do you know much about it?”

“Everything, actually. Don’t forget, I went to Cranden Academy in Greenwich, with Molly. I had the local papers sent to me throughout the trial.”

“You went to school with her? That’s great. I want to schedule a full background story on her for the series as soon as possible.”

“Sure. But Gus, don’t think I have an inside track with Molly,” Fran warned. “I haven’t laid eyes on her since the summer we graduated, and that was fourteen years ago. At the same time I began U. Cal, my mother moved to Santa Barbara, and I lost touch with just about everybody in Greenwich.”

There’d actually been many reasons for both her and her mother relocating to California, leaving Connecticut as far behind as memory would allow. On the day of Fran’s graduation from the academy, her father had taken her and her mother out for a festive dinner of celebration. At the end of the meal he had toasted Fran’s future at his alma mater, kissed both of them, and then, saying that he’d left his wallet in the car, he had gone out to the parking lot and shot himself. In the next few days the reason for his suicide became apparent. An investigation quickly determined that he’d embezzled $400,000 from the Greenwich Library Building Fund drive he’d volunteered to chair.

Gus Brandt knew that story already, of course. He’d brought it up when he came to Los Angeles to offer her the job at NAF-TV. “Look, that’s in the past. You don’t need to hide away out here in California, and besides, coming with us is the right career move for you,” he’d said. “Everyone who makes it in this business has to move around. Our six o’clock news hour is beating the local network stations, and the True Crime program is in the top ten in the ratings. Besides, admit it: you’ve missed New York.”

Fran almost had expected him to quote the old chestnut that outside New York it’s all Bridgeport, but he hadn’t gone that far. With thinning gray hair and sloping shoulders, Gus looked every second of his fifty-five years, and his countenance carried permanently the expression of someone who had just missed the last bus on a snowy night.