Growing up with adoptive parents who tried to erase every trace of her past, her name is changed to Celia. Always, though, the fear hung over her and the family - that someday, her vengeful stepfather would reappear to harm her. Aged 25, a successful interior designer, she marries a childless sixty-year old widower and they have a son. Before their marriage, she had confided her earlier life to her husband. Two years on, on his deathbed, he tells her that he would want her to re-marry, but makes her swear never to reveal her past to anyone, so that their son would not carry the burden of this family tragedy - a promise that plunges her into a new cycle of violence.

Three years later, happily re-married, Celia is shocked when her second husband presents her with a gift -- the house where she killed her mother. When the real estate agent who has made the sale recognises her and, soon after, is murdrered, Celia is accused of the crime. Once again, she is home -- the place where she is stamped as a murderess.< 'Trust Mary Higgins Clark to know what frightens us to death'

NEW YORK TIMES< 'Clark plays out her story like the pro that she is ... flawless'

DAILY MIRROR<

Chapter One: Twenty-four Years Later

I cannot believe I am standing in the exact spot where I was standing when I killed my mother. I ask myself if this is part of a nightmare, or if it is really happening. In the beginning, after that terrible night, I had nightmares all the time. I spent a good part of my childhood drawing pictures of them for Dr. Moran, a psychologist in California, where I went to live after the trial. This room figured in many of those drawings.

The mirror over the fireplace is the same one my father chose when he restored the house. It is part of the wall, recessed and framed. In it, I see my reflection. My face is deadly pale. My eyes no longer seem dark blue, but black, reflecting all the terrible visions that are leaping through my mind.

The color of my eyes is a heritage from my father. My mother's eyes were lighter, a sapphire blue, picture perfect with her golden hair. My hair would be dark blond if I left it natural. I have darkened it, though, ever since I came back to the East Coast sixteen years ago to attend the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan. I am also taller than my mother was by five inches. Yet, as I grow older, I believe I am beginning to resemble my mother in many ways, and I try to distance myself from that resemblance. I have always lived in dread of someone saying to me, "You look familiar..." At the time, my mother's image was splashed all over the media, and still turns up periodically in stories that rehash the circumstances of her death. So if anyone says I look familiar, I know it's her they have in mind. I, Celia Foster Nolan, formerly Liza Barton, the child the tabloids dubbed "Little Lizzie Borden," am far less likely to be recognized as that chubby-faced little girl with golden curls who was acquitted -- not exonerated -- of deliberately killing her mother and trying to kill her stepfather.

My second husband, Alex Nolan, and I have been married for six months. Today I thought we were going to take my four-year-old son, Jack, to see a horse show in Peapack, an upscale town in northern New Jersey, when suddenly Alex detoured to Mendham, a neighboring town. It was only then that he told me he had a wonderful surprise for my birthday and drove down the road to this house. Alex parked the car, and we went inside.

Jack is tugging at my hand, but I remain frozen to the spot. Energetic, as most four-year-olds are, he wants to explore. I let him go, and in a flash he is out of the room and running down the hall.

Alex is standing a little behind me. Without looking at him, I can feel his anxiety. He believes he has found a beautiful home for us to live in, and his generosity is such that the deed is solely in my name, his birthday gift to me. "I'll catch up with Jack, honey," he reassures me. "You look around and start figuring how you'll decorate."

As he leaves the room, I hear him call, "Don't go downst Read Less