Correctly surmising that the bed’s occupant was deceased, Mrs. Purcell began shrieking, which greatly frightened her children, Miss Augusta A. Purcell and Master Frederick G. Purcell. Hastening to the scene were Mr. Homer M. Sampson, who resides across the way at 49 Bridge Street, and Niall Devlin, a stable hand at Harrison’s Livery on Fulton Avenue, whose barns are located adjacent to the rear of the Purcell property.
After ushering the distraught Mrs. Purcell and her children to the safety of a neighboring home, Mr. Sampson dispatched the Devlin lad to fetch both the police and Mr. Purcell, who at the time was in his office at the First National Bank on Fulton Avenue.
This follows the aforementioned incident that took place last Friday morning, when the lifeless body of an unidentified young girl was found in the former bedroom of Miss Maude Browne, the eldest daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Browne, who is spending the year abroad. In that case, as in this one, there were no witnesses to the dastardly deed, no assassin was readily apprehended, nor were any suspects questioned.
At press time, a full investigation was under way. Asked whether the two crimes were linked, Officer Ernest B. Vestal informed the Tribune, “It would be imprudent to offer speculation.”
Chapter 19
After noticing several police cars in town, Mick decided to search along the bike path that follows the river north of the Schaapskill Nature Preserve. He’s pretty sure that at this time of year, no one else would think to look over here for Brianna—-or for him.
When Mom and Dad were growing up in Mundy’s Landing it was a rail track, but neither of them remember it ever being used. It’s since been paved over and it’s where he jogs every morning, accessing it via a shortcut behind his house. During the summer, it’s busy with bike traffic, but at this time of year, it’s nearly deserted.
He’s never crossed paths with Brianna here, but that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she goes earlier or later than he does. He can’t keep tabs on her every move, though he regrets that now.
He moves slowly, searching the grayish--brown scrub along both sides of the paved trail, determined not to leave until he finds her.
Waiting for the water to fill the tub in Rowan’s master bathroom, Casey regrets that it isn’t an old claw--foot model that you might expect to find in a house like this.
Ironically, you wouldn’t expect to find a claw--foot tub in a Hoboken condo, but there was one in the master bathroom of the place they’d moved into after leaving Westchester County thirteen years ago.
“Are you going to start taking bubble baths?” Casey remembers asking his mother when he saw it.
Rick answered for her. “Are you kidding? Your mom would never sit around soaking in a tub. She doesn’t like to waste time.”
“I don’t have time to waste,” Mom said in the brittle tone she was using more and more often when she spoke to Rick.
Casey was still just a kid then—-thirteen—-but he was old enough to recognize the ever--escalating tension between them. It had worsened right before they moved away from Westchester, with a fight about Rowan Mundy.
Rick felt bad that she had moved away; Mom accused him of being in love with her. Casey overheard everything.
By that time, he’d been indulging his voyeuristic tendencies for years—-with his mother and stepfather, his siblings, the neighbors . . .
He was addicted to eavesdropping on -people’s private conversations, watching their most intimate moments. There was tremendous power in omniscience.
The habit had originally been born out of paranoia, back when his biological father was still around and frequently threatening Mom that he was going to leave town with Casey and his brother. Terrified that it would actually happen, Casey monitored his father’s every move, looking for signs that he was getting ready to take off.