remember then, she doesn't remember now. Perhaps this impulsive little

trip of hers was a last-ditch effort to bring it all back, or more

likely, it was just a sentimental journey. There's no need to do Emma

any harm, any harm at all."

"And if she does remember?"

"It's unlikely. Listen to me now, and listen carefully. The first time

was an accident, a tragic and unforeseen accident. One that you

committed."

"It was your idea, the whole thing was your idea."

"Exactly, since of the two of us I'm the only one who's capable of an

original thought. But it was an accident. I have no intention of

committing premeditated murder." He thought of a session musician who'd

wanted pizza, but didn't remember his name. "Unless it's unavoidable.

Understood?"

"You're a cold sonofab.i.t.c.h."

"Yes." He smiled. "I'd advise you to remember that."

IT was SNOWING in London, wet, thick flakes that slid down collars and

melted cold on the skin. It was pretty, postcard snow, unless one was

fighting the clogged traffic along King's Road.

Emma preferred to walk. She imagined Sweeney was annoyed with her

choice, but she couldn't worry about him now. She had the address on a

slip of paper in the pocket of her thick, quilted coat. But she didn't

need that for a reminder. She'd memorized it.

It was odd to be in Chelsea, as an adult, free to walk where she chose.

She didn't remember it. Indeed, she felt a tourist in London, and

Chelsea, the grand stage for punks and Sloane Rangers, was as foreign to

her as a Venetian ca.n.a.l.

The streets were dotted with boutiques and antique sholps where

last-minute shoppers hurried in their fashionable coats and boots to

search out that perfect gift among the horde of offerings. Young girls

laughing, their pearls and sweatshirts tucked under their jackets. Young

boys, trying to look tough and bored and worldly.

Despite the snow, there had been a flower seller in Sloane Square. Even

in December spring could be bought for a reasonable price. She'd been

tempted by the color and the scent, but had walked on without digging in

her purse for pounds and shillings. How odd it would have been to have

walked up to the door, and offered a bouquet to her mother.

Her mother. She could neither deny nor accept Jane Palmer as her

mother. Even the name seemed distant to her-like something she had read

in a book. But the face lingered, the face that came in odd, sporadic

flashes in dreams, the face that flushed dark with annoyance

before a slap or a shove was administered. The face from articles in

People and the Enquirer and the Post.

A face from the past, Emma thought. And what did the past have to do

with today?

Then why had she come? The question drummed in her head as she walked

along the narrow, well-kept street. To resolve something that should

have been resolved years before.

Emma wondered if Jane thought it a fine joke to have moved into the posh

and prosperous area where Oscar Wilde, Whistler, and Thrner had lived.