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police car hurtled past her window. There’s already a problem there, she thought with a shiver of delight. “Ted, I’ll call you back,” she said, breathlessly. “The cops are on the way to your old house. I’ll let you know what develops.”

5

    â€œI am so sorry, Mrs. Nolan,” Georgette stammered. “I just got here myself. I’ve called the police.”
    I looked at her. She was trying to drag a hose across the bluestone walk, hoping, I suppose, to wash away some of the defacing of the lawn and house.
    The house was set back one hundred feet from the road. In thick billboard-sized letters, the words
    LITTLE LIZZIE’S PLACE.
    BEWARE!
    were painted in red on the lawn.
    Splashes of red paint stained the shingles and limestone on the front of the house. I saw that a skull and crossbones were carved in the mahogany door. A straw doll with a toy gun in its hand was propped against the door. I guessed it was supposed to represent me.
    â€œWhat’s this supposed to be about?” Alex snapped.
    â€œSome kids, I guess. I’m so sorry,” Georgette Grove explained nervously. “I’ll get a clean-up crew here right away, and I’ll call my landscaper. He’ll come over and cut this grass out and resod the lawn today. I can’t believe . . . ”
    Her voice trailed off as she looked at us. It was a hot and muggy day. We were both dressed in casual clothes, short-sleeved shirts and slacks. My hair was pulled back, falling loose on my shoulders. Thank God I was wearing dark glasses. I was standing beside the Mercedes, my hand on the door. Next to me, angry and upset, Alex was clearly not going to be satisfied with the offer to get rid of the mess. He wanted to know why this had happened.
    I can tell you what it’s about, Alex, I thought. Hang on, I told myself desperately. I knew that if I let go of the car door, I would fall. The August sun was streaming down, making the red paint glisten.
    Blood. It wasn’t paint. It was Mother’s blood. I could feel my arms and neck and face becoming sticky with her blood.
    â€œCelia, are you okay?” Alex had his hand on my arm. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what in hell would make anyone do this.”
    Jack had scrambled out of the car. “Mommy, are you okay? You’re not sick are you?”
    History repeating itself. Jack, who had only a dim memory of his own father, was instinctively frightened that he would lose me, too.
    I forced myself to try to focus on him, on hisneed for reassurance. Then I looked at the concern and distress on Alex’s face. A terrible possibility rushed through my mind. Does he know? Is this some terrible, cruel joke? As quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. Of course Alex had no idea that I had ever lived here. That real estate agent, Henry Paley, had told me that Alex had been on his way to see a house three blocks away when he spotted the FOR SALE sign on this house. It was one of those terrible events that just happens, a horrible coincidence. But my God, what shall I do?
    â€œI’ll be all right,” I told Jack, managing to force the words out through lips that felt numb and spongy.
    Jack ran past the car and onto the lawn. “I can read that,” he said proudly. “L-i-t-t-l-e L-i-z-z-i-e . . . ”
    â€œThat’s enough, Jack,” Alex said firmly. He looked at Georgette. “Is there any explanation for this?”
    â€œI tried to explain something to you when we first viewed the house,” Georgette said, “but you weren’t interested. A tragedy took place here nearly twenty-five years ago. A ten-year-old child, Liza Barton, accidentally killed her mother and shot her stepfather. Because of the similarity of her name to the infamous Lizzie Borden, the tabloids called her, ‘Little Lizzie Borden.’ Since then from time to time, there have been incidents here,