Now You See Her by Joy Fielding Page B

unwanted and uninvited voice once again asserted itself. “You’re sure you want to do this?” she’d asked when Marcy first informed her she was expecting. “You’ll never have another peaceful moment, you know. You’ll always be waiting, watching.…”
    “Shut up, Judith,” Marcy had said.
    “Shut up, Judith,” she said again now, rubbing her forehead and wondering where Shannon was. Probably with the O’Connor children, she decided. Maybe she’d taken them out for a walk. Or maybe they were playing in a nearby park. Or maybe it was the nanny’s day off and the children were spending the afternoon with their grandparents.
    So many maybes.
    Marcy decided to give the O’Connors a few minutes to put their groceries away before ambushing them. “You can do this,” she told herself, removing Devon’s picture from her purse and wondering what she was so afraid of. That the O’Connors wouldn’t recognize the girl in the photograph?
    Or that they would?
    Moments later a baby’s loud wail filled the air as a young woman pushing a carriage rounded the curve at the top of the street.
    Marcy found herself holding her breath as the girl came into sharper focus. She’s exactly as I imagined her, Marcy thought. She marveled at the skinny girl, taking in her fair complexion and long, strawberry-blond hair. Pretty in anunderstated way. Not the type to draw attention to her looks with too much artifice. She was dressed in blue jeans and a light jacket, her shoulders hunched slightly forward as she pushed the carriage.
    “Go on. What are you waiting for?” Marcy asked herself, speaking into the collar of her trench coat. Still, her feet refused to budge. What if this wasn’t Shannon? She couldn’t just go accosting every woman who walked by wheeling a baby carriage.
    But the girl turned into the O’Connors’ driveway, proceeding up the flower-lined walkway toward the front door. If she’d noticed Marcy standing by the side of the road, she gave no sign.
    “Now,” Marcy said, almost tripping over her own feet as she vaulted forward. “Excuse me, but could I talk to you for a minute?” She rehearsed it, her voice a whisper. “Excuse me,” she said again, louder this time.
    But the front door was already opening, Mr. O’Connor filling its frame.
    “Well, hello there, my little angel,” he said, lifting the crying baby into his arms. “Daddy’s missed his little princess. Yes, he has. He has indeed. How was she this afternoon?” he asked Shannon. “Still colicky, I see.”
    Marcy couldn’t hear Shannon’s response. The young woman’s voice was too quiet to carry the distance between them, especially since the breeze had picked up, bringing with it the renewed promise of rain. Marcy took another step forward as Mr. O’Connor carried the crying baby inside, shutting the door after him as Shannon wheeled the carriage around to the side of the house.
    Marcy quickly traversed the driveway, hoping to intercept Shannon on her way back to the front door. But after severalminutes passed with no sign of her, Marcy concluded that she must have used a side entrance. A glance at the side of the house confirmed a second door.
    So, you ring the bell, you ask to speak to Shannon, you show her Devon’s picture, Marcy instructed herself silently. How many times had she gone over this already? Shannon would either confirm the picture was her friend Audrey or she wouldn’t.
    Or what if she recognized the picture but refused to divulge Audrey’s whereabouts? Suppose Devon had already told her all about her mother, how she’d failed her in every way possible and how she’d actually faked her own death in order to get as far away from her as she could? What then?
    Would Shannon be on the phone as soon as Marcy left, calling to warn Devon that her mother was here in Cork, that she’d somehow been able to ascertain that the two of them were friends, that she was even now canvassing the city, stopping strangers on the