Weep No More My Lady by Mary Higgins Clark

if she cried out, no marks, no signs of struggle . . . His plan was to slip into the pool when she was almost at the opposite end, wait and pounce on her as she passed him, hold her down until she stopped struggling. Now, he edged his way from behind the shrubbery. It was dark enough to risk a closer look.
    He had forgotten how fast she swam. Though she was so slender, the muscles in her arms were like steel. Suppose she was able to fight long enough to attract attention? And she was probably wearing one of those damn whistles Min insisted lone swimmers put on.
    His eyes narrowed in anger and frustration as he crouched nearer and nearer the edge of the pool, ready to spring, not sure if this was the precisely right moment. She was faster swimmer than he was. In the water she might have the advantage over him. . . .
    He could not afford to make a second mistake.
    *   *   *
    IN AQUA SANITAS. The Romans had chiseled the motto into the walls of their bathhouses. If I believed in reincarnation, I would think I had lived in those times, Elizabeth thought as she glided across the dark recess of the pool. When she had begun to swim, it had been possible to see not only the perimeter of the pool, but the surrounding area with its lounge chairs and umbrella tables and flowering hedges. Now they were only dark silhouettes.
    The persistent headache she’d had all evening began to ebb, the sense of enclosure faded; once again she began to experience the release she had always found in water. “Do you think it started in the womb?” she’d once joked to Leila. “I mean this absolute sensation of being free when I’m immersed.”
    Leila’s answer had shocked her: “Maybe Mama was happy when she was carrying you, Sparrow. I’ve always thought that your father was Senator Lange. He and Mama had a big thing going after my daddy dear split the scene. When I was in the womb, I gather they called me ‘the mistake.’”
    It was Leila who had suggested that Elizabeth use the stage name Lange. “It probably should be your real name, Sparrow,” she had said. “Why not?”
    As soon as Leila began making money, she had sent a check to Mama every month. One day the check was returned uncashed by Mama’s last boyfriend. Mama had died of acute alcoholism.
    Elizabeth touched the far wall, brought her knees to her chest and flipped her body over, changing from a backstroke to a breaststroke in one fluid movement. Was it possible that Leila’s fear of personal relationships had begun at the moment of conception? Can a speck of protoplasm sense that the climate is hostile, and can that realization color a whole life? Wasn’t it because of Leila that she’d never experienced that terrible senseof parental rejection? She remembered her mother’s description of bringing her home from the hospital: “Leila took her out of my arms. She moved the crib into her room. She was only eleven, but she became that child’s mother. I wanted to call her Laverne, but Leila put her foot down. She said, ‘Her name is Elizabeth!’” One more reason to be grateful to Leila, Elizabeth thought.
    The soft ripple that her body made as she moved through the water masked the faint sound of footsteps at the other end of the pool. She had reached the north end and was starting back. For some reason she began to swim furiously, as though sensing danger.
    The shadowy figure edged its way along the wall. He coldly calculated the speed of her swift, graceful progress. Timing was essential. Grab her from behind as she passed, lie over her body, hold her face in the water until she stopped struggling. How long would it take? A minute? Two? But suppose she wasn’t that easy to subdue? This had to appear to be an accidental drowning.
    Then an idea came to him, and in the darkness his lips stretched in the semblance of a smile. Why hadn’t he