The Beauty: Gloria Nagy
The Beauty
One week last spring in New York City, two women died. This in itself was not unusual. What was unusual, even in a city such as New York, and even in the twenty-first century, was who they were and how they died.
One, unmarried and living alone in an expensive rental on the Upper East Side, was brutally murdered, her face shattered and her fingertips sliced off.
The other, a Park Avenue socialite married to a prominent businessman and mother of a ten year old daughter, committed suicide. She did this by crawling down onto the tracks at the Lexington Avenue and East 59th Street subway station during the height of the morning rush hour and allowing the Number Six train to tear her apart.
I was her brother.
To the follower of such news stories, these deaths might be shocking but wouldn’t seem in any way related. But they were.
And that’s the story I’m going to tell.
