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Daddys little girl, p.1
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       Daddy's Little Girl, p.1

           Mary Higgins Clark
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Daddy's Little Girl

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  “Clark certainly has a few tricks left in her bag.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Hard to resist.”

  —Toronto Sun

  “Her best in years . . . a tightly woven, emotionally potent tale of suspense and revenge. . . . With its textured plot, well-sketched secondary characters, strong pacing and appealing heroine, this is Clark at her most winning.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Few stories of obsession will grab readers quite like this one.”

  —Ottowa Citizen

  “A fast and fascinating read.”

  —Knoxville News-Sentinel (TN)

  “Daddy’s Little Girl is the best book Clark has written in two years. Her work seems somehow more solid, the plotting more deft. The . . . ending is so unexpected and harrowing I just had to sit back and allow the story to run through my mind until I absorbed the depth of all I’d just read.”

  —Tulsa World (OK)


  “Is a reincarnated serial killer at work in a New Jersey resort town more than a century after he first drew blood? That’s the catchy premise that supports Clark’s 24th book. . . . This is a plot-driven novel, with Clark’s story mechanics at their peak of complexity, clever and tricky.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Like all of Clark’s novels, this one is a suspenseful page-turner that will delight her many fans.”


  “The cleverly complex plot gallops along at a great clip, the little background details are au courant, and the identities of both murderers come as an enjoyable surprise. On the Street Where You Live just may be Clark’s best in years.”



  “Mary Higgins Clark knows what she’s doing. . . . This savvy author always comes up with something unexpected. . . . A hold-your-breath ending.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Romantic suspense has no more reliable champion than Mary Higgins Clark. Her characters are . . . breezy and fun, and so is this confection of a book.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “For someone who loves plot, Mary Higgins Clark’s Before I Say Good-Bye should be like manna from heaven. . . . [The] ‘Queen of Suspense’ clearly knows what her readers want. Here she provides it, in spades.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “A smooth and easy read.”

  —New York Post

  “The storytelling skills of the newest grandmaster of mystery writing have never been better.”

  —The Hartford Courant (CT)

  “Clark holds the reins the whole way through this tale of mischief and secrets, allowing us to unwind her labyrinth of hidden clues only as she wants them to unfold.”

  —The Christian Science Monitor

  “Characters so interesting the reader can identify with them in an instant.”

  —Lexington Herald-Leader (KY)



  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 2

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  One Year Later



  THIS STORY, written in the first person, has been a different kind of journey for me. That is why I am so truly grateful for the guidance, encouragement, and support of my longtime editor, Michael Korda, and his associate, senior editor Chuck Adams. Mille grazie, dear friends.

  Always thanks to Eugene Winick and Sam Pinkus, my literary agents, for all their constant care, assistance, and friendship.

  Lisl Cade, my dear publicist, remains as always my right hand. My gratitude to her always.

  Continuing thanks to Associate Director of Copyediting Gypsy da Silva, with whom I have worked for so many years. A kiss to the memory of copyeditor Carol Catt, who shall be sorely missed.

  Kudos to Sgt. Steven Marron and Detective Richard Murphy, Ret. NYPD, New York County District Attorney’s Office, for their advice and assistance in matters of investigation and detection.

  Blessings to my assistants and friends, Agnes Newton and Nadine Petry, and my reader-in-progress, my sister-in-law, Irene Clark.

  Judith Kelman, author and pal, once again came through instantly when I called on her. Love you, Judith.

  My gratitude to Fr. Emil Tomaskovic and Fr. Bob Warren, Franciscan Friars of the Atonement at Graymoor, Garrison, New York, for their valuable help with the setting of scenes in this book, and for the wonderful work they and their brother Friars do for those who need help most.

  My love and gratitude to my husband, John Conheeney, our children, and grandchildren only grows and multiplies. They are what I am all about.

  Greetings to all my friends who have been waiting for me to finish this book so that we can “get together soon.”

  I’m ready!

  Part One


  WHEN ELLIE AWOKE that morning, it was with the sense that something terrible had happened.

  Instinctively she reached for Bones, the soft and cuddly stuffed dog who had shared her pillow ever since she could remember. When she’d had her seventh birthday last month, Andrea, her fifteen-year-old sister, had teased her that it was time to toss Bones in the attic.

  Then Ellie remembered what was wrong: Andrea hadn’t come home last night. After dinner, she had gone to her best friend Joan’s house to study for a math test. She had promised to be home by nine o’clock. At quarter of nine, Mommy went to Joan’s house to walk Andrea home, but they said Andrea had left at eight o’clock.

  Mommy had come back home worried and almost crying, just as Daddy got in from work. Daddy was a lieutenant in the New York State Police. Right away he and Mommy had started calling all of Andrea’s friends, but no one had seen her. Then Daddy said he was going to drive around to the bowling alley and to the ice cream parlor, just in case Andrea had gone there.

  “If she lied about doing homework until nine o’clock, she won’t set foot out of this house for six months,” he’d said angrily, and then he’d turned to Mommy: “If I said it once, I’ve said it a thousan
d times—I don’t want her to go out after dark alone.”

  Despite his raised voice, Ellie could tell that Daddy was more worried than angry.

  “For heaven’s sake, Ted, she went out at seven o’clock. She got to Joan’s. She was planning to be home by nine, and I even walked over there to meet her.”

  “Then where is she?”

  They made Ellie go to bed, and, eventually, she fell asleep waking only now. Maybe Andrea was home by now, she thought hopefully. She slipped out of bed, rushed across the room, and darted down the hall to Andrea’s room. Be there, she begged. Please be there. She opened the door. Andrea’s bed had not been slept in.

  Her bare feet silent on the steps, Ellie hurried downstairs. Their neighbor, Mrs. Hilmer, was sitting with Mommy in the kitchen. Mommy was wearing the same clothes she had on last night, and she looked as if she’d been crying for a long time.

  Ellie ran to her. “Mommy.”

  Mommy hugged her and began to sob. Ellie felt Mommy’s hand clutching her shoulder, so hard that she was almost hurting her.

  “Mommy, where’s Andrea?”

  “We . . . don’t . . . know. Daddy and the police are looking for her.”

  “Ellie, why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll fix you some breakfast?” Mrs. Hilmer asked.

  No one was saying that she should hurry up because the school bus would be coming pretty soon. Without asking, Ellie knew she wouldn’t be going to school today.

  She dutifully washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth and hair, and then put on play clothes—a turtleneck shirt and her favorite blue slacks—and went downstairs again.

  Just as she sat at the table where Mrs. Hilmer had put out juice and cornflakes, Daddy came through the kitchen door. “No sign of her,” he said. “We’ve looked everywhere. There was a guy collecting for some phony charity ringing doorbells in town yesterday. He was in the diner last night and left around eight o’clock. He would have passed Joan’s house on the way to the highway around the time Andrea left. They’re looking for him.”

  Ellie could tell that Daddy was almost crying. He also hadn’t seemed to notice her, but she didn’t mind. Sometimes when Daddy came home he was upset because something sad had happened while he was at work, and for a while he’d be very quiet. He had that same look on his face now.

  Andrea was hiding—Ellie was sure of it. She had probably left Joan’s house early on purpose because she was meeting Rob Westerfield in the hideout, then maybe it got late and she was afraid to come home. Daddy had said that if she ever lied again about where she’d been, he’d make her quit the school band. He’d said that when he found out she had gone for a ride with Rob Westerfield in his car when she was supposed to be at the library.

  Andrea loved being in the band; last year she’d been the only freshman chosen for the flute section. But if she’d left Joan’s house early and gone to the hideout to meet Rob, and Daddy found out, that would mean she’d have to give it up. Mommy always said that Andrea could twist Daddy around her little finger, but she didn’t say that last month when one of the state troopers told Daddy he’d stopped Rob West-erfield to give him a ticket for speeding and that Andrea was with him at the time.

  Daddy hadn’t said anything about it until after dinner. Then he asked Andrea how long she’d been at the library.

  She didn’t answer him.

  Then he said, “I see you’re smart enough to realize that the trooper who gave Westerfield the ticket would tell me you were with him. Andrea, that guy is not only rich and spoiled, he’s a bad apple through and through. When he kills himself speeding, you’re not going to be in the car. You are absolutely forbidden to have anything to do with him.”

  The hideout was in the garage behind the great big house that old Mrs. Westerfield, Rob’s grandmother, lived in all summer. It was always unlocked, and sometimes Andrea and her friends sneaked in there and smoked cigarettes. Andrea had taken Ellie there a couple of times when she was babysitting her.

  Her friends had been really mad at Andrea for bringing her along, but she had said, “Ellie is a good kid. She’s not a snitch.” Hearing that had made Ellie feel great, but Andrea hadn’t let Ellie have even one puff of the cigarette.

  Ellie was sure that last night Andrea had left Joan’s house early because she was planning to meet Rob Westerfield. Ellie had heard her when she talked to him on the phone yesterday, and when she was finished, she was practically crying. “I told Rob I was going to the mixer with Paulie,” she said, “and now he’s really mad at me.”

  Ellie thought about the conversation as she finished the cornflakes and juice. Daddy was standing at the stove. He was holding a cup of coffee. Mommy was crying again but making almost no sound.

  Then, for the first time, Daddy seemed to notice her: “Ellie, I think you’d be better off in school. At lunchtime I’ll take you over.”

  “Is it all right if I go outside now?”

  “Yes. But stay around the house.”

  Ellie ran for her jacket and was quickly out the door. It was the fifteenth of November, and the leaves were damp and felt sloshy underfoot. The sky was heavy with clouds, and she could tell it was going to rain again. Ellie wished they were back in Irvington where they used to live. It was lonesome here. Mrs. Hilmer’s house was the only other one on this road.

  Daddy had liked living in Irvington, but they’d moved here, five towns away, because Mommy wanted a bigger house and more property. They found they could afford that if they moved farther up in Westchester, to a town that hadn’t yet become a suburb of New York City.

  When Daddy said he missed Irvington, where he’d grown up and where they’d lived until two years ago, Mommy would tell him how great the new house was. Then he’d say that in Irvington we had a million-dollar view of the Hudson River and the Tappan Zee Bridge, and he didn’t have to drive five miles for a newspaper or a loaf of bread.

  There were woods all around their property. The big Westerfield house was directly behind theirs, but on the other side of the woods. Glancing back at the kitchen window to make sure no one had seen her, Ellie began to dart through the trees.

  Five minutes later she reached the clearing and ran across the field to where the Westerfield property began. Feeling more and more alone, she raced up the long driveway and darted around the mansion, a small figure lost in the lengthening shadows of the approaching storm.

  There was a side door to the garage, and that was the one that was unlocked. Even so, it was hard for Ellie to turn the handle. Finally she succeeded and stepped into the gloom of the interior. The garage was big enough to hold four cars, but the only one Mrs. Westerfield left after the summer was the van. Andrea and her friends had brought some old blankets to sit on when they went there. They always sat in the same spot, at the back of the garage behind the van, so that if anyone happened to look in the window, they wouldn’t be able to see them. Ellie knew that was where Andrea would be hiding if she was here.

  She didn’t know why she felt suddenly afraid, but she did. Now, instead of running, she had to practically drag her feet to make them move toward the back of the garage. But then she saw it—the edge of the blanket peeking out from behind the van. Andrea was here! She and her friends would never have left the blankets out; when they left, they always folded them and hid them in the cabinet with the cleaning supplies.

  “Andrea . . .” Now she ran, calling softly so that Andrea wouldn’t be scared. She was probably asleep, Ellie decided.

  Yes, she was. Even though the garage was filled with shadows, Ellie could see Andrea’s long hair trailing out from under the blankets.

  “Andrea, it’s me.” Ellie sank to her knees beside Andrea and pulled back the blanket covering her face.

  Andrea had a mask on, a terrible monster mask that looked all sticky and gummy. Ellie reached down to pull it off, and her fingers went into a broken space in Andrea’s forehead. As she jerked back, she became aware of the pool of Andrea’s blood, soaking through her slacks.<
br />
  Then, from somewhere in the big room, she was sure she heard someone breathing—harsh, heavy, sucking-in breaths that broke off in a kind of giggle.

  Terrified, she tried to get up, but her knees slid in the blood and she fell forward across Andrea’s chest. Her lips grazed something smooth and cold—Andrea’s gold locket. Then she managed to scramble to her feet, and she turned and began to run.

  She did not know she was shrieking until she was almost home, and Ted and Genine Cavanaugh ran into the backyard to see their younger daughter burst out of the woods, her arms outstretched, her little form covered in her sister’s blood.


  WITH THE EXCEPTION of when his team practiced or had a game during the baseball season, sixteen-year-old Paulie Stroebel worked in Hillwood’s service station after school and all day Saturday. The alternative was to help out during those same hours at his parents’ delicatessen a block away on Main Street, something he’d been doing from the time he was seven years old.

  Slow academically, but good with things mechanical, he loved to repair cars, and his parents had been understanding of his desire to work for someone else. With unruly blond hair, blue eyes, round cheeks, and a stocky five-foot-eight frame, Paulie was considered a quiet, hardworking employee by his boss at the service station and something of a dopey nerd by his fellow students at Delano High. His one achievement in school was to be on the football team.

  On Friday, when word of Andrea Cavanaugh’s murder reached the school, guidance counselors were sent to all the classes to break the news to the students. Paul was in the middle of a study period when Miss Watkins came into his classroom, whispered to the teacher, and rapped on the desk for attention.

  “I have very sad news for all of you,” she began. “We have just learned . . .” In halting sentences she informed them that sophomore Andrea Cavanaugh had been killed, the victim of foul play. The reaction was a chorus of shocked gasps and tearful protests.

  Then a shouted “No!” silenced the others. Quiet, placid Paulie Stroebel, his face twisted in grief, had sprung to his feet. As his classmates stared at him, his shoulders began to shake. Fierce sobs racked his body, and he ran from the room. As the door closed behind him, he said something in a voice too muffled for most of them to hear. However, the student seated nearest the door later swore that his words were “I can’t believe she’s dead!”

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