A “superbly plotted” ( Los Angeles Times ) page-turning classic from the undisputed Queen of Suspense and #1 New York Times bestselling author Mary Higgins Clark. A minor road accident landed county prosecutor Katie DeMaio in Westlake Hospital. That night, from her window, she thought she saw a man load a woman’s body into the trunk of a car...or was it just a sleeping pill induced nightmare? At work the next day, Katie began investigating a suicide that looked more like murder. Initial evidence pointed elsewhere, but medical examiner Richard Carroll saw a trail leading to Dr. Edgar Highley. He suspected that the famous doctor’s work “curing” infertile women was more than controversial—that it was deceitful, depraved, and often deadly. But before Richard could tell Katie his fears, she left the office for the weekend and an appointment for routine surgery...in Dr. Highley’s operating room. “A harrowing tale” ( The New York Times Book Review ) that’s “indescribably suspenseful” ( San Francisco Chronicle ), The Cradle Will Fall is a page-turning thriller of the highest order. The #1 New York Times bestselling author Mary Higgins Clark wrote over forty suspense novels, four collections of short stories, a historical novel, a memoir, and two children’s books. With bestselling author Alafair Burke she wrote the Under Suspicion series including The Cinderella Murder , All Dressed in White , The Sleeping Beauty Killer , Every Breath You Take , You Don’t Own Me , and Piece of My Heart . With her daughter Carol Higgins Clark, she coauthored five suspense novels. More than one hundred million copies of her books are in print in the United States alone. Her books are international bestsellers. The Cradle Will Fall ?1? If her mind had not been on the case she had won, Katie might not have taken the curve so fast, but the intense satisfaction of the guilty verdict was still absorbing her. It had been a close one. Roy O’Connor was one of the top defense attorneys in New Jersey. The defendant’s confession had been suppressed by the court, a major blow for the prosecution. But still she had managed to convince the jury that Teddy Copeland was the man who had viciously murdered eighty-year-old Abigail Rawlings during a robbery. Miss Rawlings’ sister, Margaret, was in court to hear the verdict and afterward had come up to Katie. “You were wonderful, Mrs. DeMaio,” she’d said. “You look like a young college girl. I never would have thought you could, but when you talked, you proved every point; you made them feel what he did to Abby. What will happen now?” “With his record, let’s hope the judge decides to send him to prison for the rest of his life,” Katie answered. “Thank God,” Margaret Rawlings had said. Her eyes, already moist and faded with age, filled with tears. Quietly she brushed them away as she said, “I miss Abby so. There was just the two of us left. And I keep thinking how frightened she must have been. It would have been awful if he’d gotten away with it.” “He didn’t get away with it!” The memory of that reassurance distracted Katie now, made her press her foot harder on the accelerator. The sudden increase in speed as she rounded the curve made the car fishtail on the sleet-covered road. “Oh . . . no!” She gripped the wheel frantically. The county road was dark. The car raced across the divider and spun around. From the distance she saw headlights approaching. She turned the wheel into the skid but could not control the car. It careened onto the shoulder of the road, but the shoulder too was a sheet of ice. Like a skier about to jump, the car poised for an instant at the edge of the shoulder, its wheels lifting as it slammed down the steep embankment into the wooded fields. A dark shape loomed ahead: a tree. Katie felt the sickening crunch as metal tore into bark. The car shuddered. Her body was flung forward against the wheel, then slammed backward. She raised her arms in front of her face, trying to protect it from the splinters of flying glass that exploded from the windshield. Sharp, biting pain attacked her wrists and knees. The headlights and panel lights went out. Dark, velvety blackness was closing over her as from somewhere off in the distance she heard a siren. The sound of the car door opening, a blast of cold air. “My God, it’s Katie DeMaio!” A voice she knew. Tom Coughlin, that nice young cop. He testified at a trial last week. “She’s unconscious.” She tried to protest, but her lips wouldn’t form words. She couldn’t open her eyes. “The blood’s coming from her arm. Looks like she’s cut an artery.” Her arm was being held; something tight was pressing against it. A different voice: “She may have internal injuries, Tom. Westlake’s right down the road. I’ll call for an ambulance. You stay with her.” Floating. Floating. I’m all right. It’s just that I can’t reach you. Hands lifting her onto a stretcher; she felt a blanket covering her, sleet pelting her fac