She didn’t dare look at Malloy. “I’d be delighted,” she said quite honestly.

“Good,” Richard said with more satisfaction than was seemly. “I’ll call for you at eight o’clock.” He reached across Malloy and took his hat from where it hung by the door. Then he turned back and gave Sarah a small bow. “Until tomorrow then.”

“Thank you for the flowers,” Sarah said without thinking.

Richard smiled at this final triumph and took his leave. When Sarah closed the door and turned back to Malloy, he looked as if he might explode. “It was nice of you to come on a Sunday,” she said as if she were oblivious to the drama they had just experienced.

She didn’t invite him in. She knew he would follow her. She stopped to pick up the dirty dishes she and Richard had been using and put them back on the tray.

“I guess he ate all the pie, too,” Malloy said sourly.

Sarah managed not to smile. “There’s one piece left. Come into the kitchen.”

He didn’t say a word as she poured him some coffee and served him the pie, although she could feel his gaze on her every second. She was being silly to enjoy the small display of masculine rivalry over her, but she was going to enjoy it anyway.

She poured herself a second cup of coffee and took a seat across the table from him. He was still staring at her, his eyes narrowed. She couldn’t read his expression.

“So today you think the girl’s mother killed her,” he said, feigning skepticism. “I suppose you’ve got a good reason for changing your mind.”

“I went to the mission yesterday and asked Mrs. Wells which one of the girls had told her Emilia wanted Ugo to see her new dress. I was sure that girl was the killer and had been preparing Mrs. Wells to give that information to the police.”

“And?” he prodded, not willing to offer any encouragement.

“And when I asked Mrs. Wells, she told me Maeve was the one who had said it, but Maeve couldn’t be the killer because she hadn’t left the mission all morning.”

“She could’ve sneaked out,” Malloy offered.

“I didn’t think of that, but it doesn’t matter. Mrs. Wells called her in and asked her why she’d said that about Ugo. That’s when we realized Mrs. Wells had been mistaken. Maeve had told her that Emilia wanted her mother to see her looking so pretty.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Malloy scoffed. “She didn’t even like her mother.”

“But she did love her,” Sarah said. “Children always love their parents, no matter how badly they treat them. And children want their parents to love them back. Mrs. Donato never did because she believed Emilia was the result of the attack – oh, Malloy, I never had a chance to tell you! That isn’t even true!”

“What isn’t true?”

“Mrs. Donato thought Emilia was fathered by one of the sailors who attacked her because she had blond hair, but Mr. Donato told me his story, and that wasn’t the reason at all.”

“What story does Mr. Donato have?” Malloy asked in obvious confusion. “And why did he tell it to you?”

“He told it to me when I went over there to discuss Emilia’s burial plans. You see, Emilia wasn’t the Donatos’ child at all! Their child died at birth. The midwife who delivered it had just delivered a baby to a prostitute. She was going to take it to an orphanage, but Mr. Donato decided to switch the babies, so Mrs. Donato wouldn’t be upset because her baby died.”

“And that’s why the girl didn’t look Italian,” Malloy guessed.

“And why Mrs. Donato thought she’d been fathered by a sailor.”

“And why Mr. Donato never questioned the girl’s paternity,” Malloy decided. “But it still doesn’t mean Mrs. Donato killed her.”

“Maeve said Emilia wanted her mother to see her in her new clothes. Mrs. Wells told me Mrs. Donato sells paper flowers in City Hall Park. Emilia would have known that. She went down there to see her mother. They must have gotten into an argument, and all of Mrs. Donato’s anger made her finally kill the girl she’d always hated. You see, Malloy, this explains everything. Now it all makes sense – why she was in the park and why the killer used a hat pin. Everything makes sense.”

She knew she was right, and Malloy knew it, too. She could tell by the way he was frowning. He hadn’t even tasted the pie yet.

“Does she know Emilia wasn’t her child?” he asked after a moment.

“I don’t think so, unless Mr. Donato told her since I saw him, but I can’t imagine why he would after all these years.”

“I can use that, then,” he said thoughtfully.

“Use it for what?”

“To break her and get her to confess.”

FRANK SUPPOSED HE WAS GOING TO BE ANGRY every minute for the rest of his natural life. He didn’t see any other possibility as long as he continued his acquaintance with Sarah Brandt. The worst part was that the thing he was angriest about was something he didn’t have any right to even feel. That thing was, of course, jealousy of Richard Dennis.

Why should he be surprised to find Dennis at her house on a Sunday afternoon? He was exactly the kind of man she deserved – a man with money and social position and good manners. Frank supposed he should be grateful for the good manners. In Dennis’s place, Frank would’ve thrown a scruffy police detective out into the street for speaking to Sarah the way Frank had spoken to her today. Not that she didn’t deserve it, of course, but still, he’d been pretty rude.

On the other hand, Frank would have preferred being beaten senseless to hearing Sarah accept Dennis’s dinner invitation. The man might be well bred, but he knew how to inflict exquisite pain just the same. Frank would carry the bitter memory of her “delighted” acceptance for a long time to come. His mother would tell him he’d gotten no more than he deserved for trying to get above himself. Even worse, she’d be right.

Fortunately, Frank had the trip from Bank Street down to Mulberry Bend to get himself back under control again. He even managed to give some thought as to how he would approach Mrs. Donato. Remembering how dangerous the Italians could be with their knives – and their hat pins – Frank picked up a couple patrolmen at Headquarters to accompany him. He left one downstairs at the front door, and the other he instructed to wait in the hallway outside their flat.

When they had reached the top of the stairs, however, Frank saw that he needn’t have worried. The door stood open, and Frank could see Mrs. Donato sitting alone at her kitchen table. The remains of the family’s Sunday dinner still sat, untouched, and she was simply staring at nothing, oblivious even to her visitor.

“Mrs. Donato?” Frank said, startling her.

She looked up, not recognizing him at first. “We pay rent,” she said, hardly able to work up any indignation.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy from the police,” he said. Her eyes widened in alarm, but he hurried on, “I want to ask you some more questions about your daughter.”

She seemed to shrink into herself at the mention of Emilia. “I know nothing. No can help you.”

Frank went into the flat and pulled out a chair. He turned it and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and leaning in close to Mrs. Donato. He could see her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t been sleeping, and her face was gray. She had been suffering the torment of the damned, but Frank was going to give her an opportunity to bare her blackened soul.

“You didn’t like your daughter much, did you, Mrs. Donato?” he began.

She stiffened. True or not, such a thing would be difficult to admit. “She bad, all a time bad. No listen. No good.”

“Maybe she just wanted her mother to love her,” he suggested.

The woman drew back, eyeing him warily. He was dangerous. She could see that now. “She be good, I love then,” she tried.

“She could never be good enough to make you forget the sailors, though, could she?” he prodded.