The Second Time Around by Mary Higgins Clark

“Dr. Greene will give you medicine.”
    If he made an appointment with Dr. Greene, he’d be able to go to the hospital, and nobody would think it was unusual to see him there. He’d find out where Lynn Spencer was and go into her room. And before he killed her, he’d tell her all about Annie.

E IGHT

    I hadn’t intended to visit Lynn that day, but after I passed the ruin that had been her home in Bedford, I realized that I was only ten minutes away from the hospital. I decided to stop in. I’ll be honest: I’d seen pictures of that beautiful house, and now, witnessing the charred remains, it hit me how very fortunate Lynn had been to survive. There were two other cars in the garage that night. If that fireman hadn’t noticed the red Fiat she usually drove and inquired about it, she would be dead now.
    She had been lucky. Luckier than her husband, I thought as I drove into the hospital parking lot. I was sure I wouldn’t have to worry about running into cameramen today. In this fast-paced world, Lynn’s brush with death was already old news, only interesting if someone was arrested for setting the fire or if Lynn herself was found to be a co-conspirator in the looting of Gen-stone.
    When I got my visitor’s pass at the hospital, I was directed to the top floor. When I stepped out of the elevator, I realized it was for patients with big bucks. The hallway was carpeted, and the unoccupied room I passed could have been in a five-star hotel.
    It occurred to me that I should have phoned ahead. My mental image had been of the Lynn I’d seen two days ago, with oxygen tubes in her nostrils, bandaged hands and feet—and pathetically grateful to see me.
    The door of her room was partially open, and when I looked in, I hesitated before entering because she was talking on the phone. She was reclining on a divan at the window, and the change in her appearance was dramatic. The oxygen tubes were gone. The bandages on her palms were much smaller. A pale green satin robe had replaced the hospital-issue nightshirt she had been wearing on Tuesday. Her hair was no longer loose but once again was swept up in a French knot. I heard her say, “I love you, too.”
    She must have sensed my presence because she turned as she closed her cell phone. What did I see on her face? Surprise? Or for an instant did she look annoyed, even alarmed?
    But then her smile was welcoming and her voice warm. “Carley, how nice of you to come. I was just talking to Dad. I can’t convince him that I’m really all right.”
    I walked over to her, and realizing that I probably shouldn’t touch her hand, I awkwardly patted her shoulder, and then sat on the loveseat facing her. There were flowers on the table next to her, flowers on thedresser, flowers on the night table. None of the arrangements were the kind you grab in the hospital lobby. Like everything else about Lynn, they were expensive.
    I was angry at myself for immediately feeling a sense of being off-balance with her, as though I was waiting for her to establish the mood. In our first meeting in Florida, she’d been condescending. Two days ago she’d been vulnerable. Today?
    â€œCarley, I can’t thank you enough for the way you spoke about me when they interviewed you the other day,” she said.
    â€œI simply said that you were lucky to be alive and that you were in pain.”
    â€œAll I know is that I’ve had calls from friends who had stopped talking to me after they found out what Nick had done. They saw you, and I guess they realized that I’m a victim along with them.”
    â€œLynn, what do you think about your husband now?” It was a question I had to ask, the one I realized I had come here to ask.
    Lynn looked past me. Her mouth tightened. She clasped her hands together, then winced and pulled them apart. “Carley, it’s all happened so fast. The plane crash. I couldn’t