The Cinderella Murder by Mary Higgins Clark, Alafair Burke Page A

serious.
    “Or maybe you did,” she sniped, “just like Susan’s parents always thought. It won’t look good that you had something going with your girlfriend’s own roommate.”
    “Mutual destruction,” he said, staring at the empty glass he was now spinning in his hand.
    “So I have your word?”
    “Word,” he said, pointing at her. “We never happened. Forget all our cozy little get-togethers. Our secret dies with us.”

12

    O nce Madison was out of view, Keith pulled his cell phone from his jeans pocket, scrolled through his favorite contacts, and tapped on the entry listed as “AG.” Very few people had this particular phone number. Keith had gotten it five years earlier, and that was after fifteen years of dedicated service. At the time, his career was on a roll. He chose to believe that it was the decade and a half of loyalty, not the fleeting appearance of fame or the financial rewards that came with it, that had led to this privilege.
    “Yes?” the voice on the other line said. All these years later, and Keith still thought this voice was one of the strangest he’d ever heard. High-pitched like a child’s, but completely confident and controlled.
    “I have more information about the television show I told you about.”
    “Yes?”
    “Apparently they are going forward with production. My understanding is that everyone else is getting pulled in: Frank Parker, Susan’s mother, Madison Meyer, Nicole.”
    “Nicole. You’re certain?”
    With a source like Madison, how could Keith possibly be sure? That woman would lie, steal, cheat—maybe even kill—to get what she wanted. Wasn’t that why he’d been drawn to her back then? Shewas dark and dangerous—everything Susan was not. But, as much as she’d been trying to manipulate him, seeking him out here at Teddy’s, he didn’t think she was lying about other people’s signing on to appear on the show. “Yes, I’m almost positive.” He knew to include the word “almost.” You didn’t get access to this phone number by withholding any tiny kernel of truth.
    “Did they say anything else about Nicole?” the voice asked.
    “Her last name is apparently Melling now. That’s all I know.”
    There was a pause before the voice continued. “It will be better if you participate.”
    Keith had been afraid Martin would say that. Money in Keith’s pocket meant more tithing, not to mention the help Keith could give to the church’s reputation if he were back in the spotlight. Keith reminded himself that the church focused on fund-raising to advance its mission of helping the poor, but he really didn’t want to do this show.
    “Susan’s mother has always suspected me of killing her daughter. I can only imagine what she’ll say about me. And I’ve been public about my religion. It could make the church look bad.”
    “You’re an actor. Charm the producers. And be sure to report back with any new information on Nicole.”
    “She’s been off the radar for twenty years. Why the curiosity?”
    “You let me worry about my own enemies.”
    When the line went dead, Keith Ratner was glad that he hadn’t made an adversary of the man on the other end of the line. He intended to keep it that way at all costs.

13

    T hree hundred fifty miles away, in downtown San Francisco, Steve Roman’s cell phone rang. The screen identified the caller as “AG.”
    He felt himself smile. The directive that Steve move to the Bay Area was a sure sign that he was trusted, but he missed seeing Martin Collins in person. Maybe the church would ask him to return to Los Angeles. Or perhaps Martin would be coming north for another big revival.
    “Steve Roman,” he answered. Steve, like Steve McQueen. Roman, like a gladiator.
    “You’re well?” Martin never identified himself during phone calls. It wasn’t necessary. Anyone who had witnessed one of Martin’s sermons knew the distinctive sound of his voice. Steve had first heard Martin’s voice when a friend