Daisy Carruthers left New York City because of a murder investigation.
When her boyfriend, Dean Snyder, fell from their ninth-floor balcony to the deserted Brooklyn sidewalk below late one evening the previous year, it was Daisy who had been named the prime suspect in his death. It was Daisy who spent the better part of a year trying to clear her name, trying to get people to stop thinking of her as a ruthless criminal, trying to get everyone to understand that Dean’s tragic fall had been accidental.
Trying, most of all, to grieve the loss of someone she had loved so completely.
As long as she was a suspect, she couldn’t move away from the city, couldn’t start fresh. She couldn’t bear the thought that she might be remembered as a black widow of sorts, killing her mate so she could continue life unencumbered by a weighty relationship.
But the day came when a witness stepped forward to confirm what Daisy had been saying all along: that Dean had been alone on the balcony that night and that he had fallen over the railing trying to catch a cocktail napkin which had blown out of his hand. The witness had not realized for many months that there was an investigation surrounding Dean’s death because it had so obviously been an accident.
The witness’s story confirmed what Daisy had been saying all along.
Dean’s death was finally ruled an accident, and Daisy was no longer a suspect.
By then, she was ready to leave the city that had been so cruel to her. She wanted to start fresh in a city she had never visited with Dean.
So she packed her bags and moved to Washington, DC.