Elizabeth March was afraid; she didn't yet know of whom or of what, only that every day small, disquieting things, increasing in number, made her feel that she was either losing her grip or that someone was stealthily trying to destroy her. Why did her husband watch her when he thought she wasn't looking? Who had tampered with her sleeping pills, frightened her children, forged her name on checks? Was it Constance Ives, her cousin and housekeeper? Or was it Lucy Brent, playing the loyal friend? Were they in league with her husband? Or was she going mad?