On the Street Where you Live by Mary Higgins Clark

the pot, she had made a decision.
    It had been foolish not to call the Albany police immediately and report what had happened last night. They should be aware of it.
    Why didn’t I call them?
    She answered her own question. Because I don’t want to believe that it’s going to begin again. I’ve been burying my head in the sand since I saw that photograph slipped under the door last night.
    She knew what she had to do. Detective Walsh had carried the bag of books into the kitchen. She picked it up, went into the study, and laid it by the ottoman in front of the deep armchair. She went over to the desk, got the portable phone, and perched on the ottoman.
    Her first call was to Detective Marty Browski in Albany. He had been the one who collared Ned Koehler lurking outside her townhouse. Browski’s response to what she told him was both astonishment and concern. “My guess is that you’ve got a copycat, eitherthat or one of Koehler’s friends is picking up where he left off. We’ll look into it. Emily, I’m glad you called the local police. Tell you what. I’ll give them a call down there and alert them to the seriousness of the problem. I can fill them in on the background.”
    Her next call was to Eric Bailey. It was after five, but he was still in the office and delighted to hear from her. “Albany’s not the same without you,” he said.
    She smiled at the familiar worried tone. Even with millions of dollars, Eric would never change, she thought. Shy, little-boy-lost, but a genius. “I miss you too,” she assured him. “And I’ve got a favor to ask.”
    â€œGood. Whatever you want, you’ve got it.”
    â€œEric, the security camera you put in the townhouse was the reason the cops got Ned Koehler. You offered me one for Spring Lake. I want to take you up on that offer. Can you send someone down to put it in?”
    â€œI can send myself down. I want to see you anyhow. The next few days are really busy. Is Monday okay?”
    She could visualize him, his forehead creased, his fingers restlessly toying with some gadget on his desk. When he became successful he traded his blue jeans and tee shirts and parkas for an expensive wardrobe. She hated the sly jokes people told about him, that he still looked the same: woebegone. The poor soul.
    â€œMonday is fine,” she said.
    â€œHow’s everything going with your house?”
    â€œInteresting. I’ll fill you in on Monday.” And that’sabout as much as I can do, Emily thought as she replaced the receiver. Now to get into these books.
    She spent the next three hours curled up in the big chair, absorbed in the books Wilcox had lent her. He had chosen well, she decided. She found herself pulled into an era of horse-drawn carriages, oil lamps, and stately summer “cottages.”
    With the awareness of the price she had just paid for her house still fresh in her mind, the ordinance that the minimum amount a property owner could spend building a new home was three thousand dollars made her smile.
    The report from the president of the Board of Health in 1893 over the need to stop the dumping of garbage in the ocean “to keep our beach free from offensive matter washed thereupon day to day” was a wry reminder that some things never change.
    A book with many photographs included one of a Sunday school picnic in 1890. The list of the children in attendance included the name of Catherine Shapley.
    Madeline’s sister. My great-great grandmother, Emily thought. I wish I could pick her out. In the sea of faces it was impossible to match one of them with the few family photos that had survived the storeroom fire.
    At eight o’clock she went back into the kitchen and completed preparing dinner. Once again she propped a book up on the table. This one she had deliberately saved because it looked the most interesting. Reflections of a Girlhood was the title. It had been