The Final Victim

by that's me

  Alcohol pro­bably had a hand in his own mot­her's de­ath as well.

  At le­ast, Char­lot­te as­su­mes it con­t­ri­bu­ted to her pa­ter­nal gran­d­mot­her Ele­ano­re's de­ci­si­on to kill her­self. The to­pic of her de­ath has al­ways be­en as for­bid­den wit­hin the fa­mily as li­qu­or was at Oak­ga­te.

  The of­fi­ci­al story is that Gran­dad­dy's wi­fe di­ed in her sle­ep of so­me un­di­ag­no­sed il­lness.

  But lo­cal gos­sip, which in­va­ri­ably re­ac­hed Char­lot­te's ears co­ur­tesy of in­sen­si­ti­ve chil­d­ho­od pe­ers, cla­imed that one night, Ele­ano­re tuc­ked her two small sons in­to bed, then fi­xed her­self a let­hal coc­k­ta­il spi­ked with bar­bi­tu­ra­tes.

  It was her yo­un­ger son who re­por­tedly fo­und her the next mor­ning, tho­ugh Char­lot­te's fat­her ne­ver af­fir­med that. No, Nor­ris just wan­de­red thro­ugh li­fe we­aring a Per­pe­tu­al­ly ha­un­ted ex­p­res­si­on that grew even mo­re hag­gard when he was self-me­di­ca­ted with bo­ur­bon. The only ti­me Char­lot­te ever re­al­ly saw him lo­oking at pe­ace was the day she kis­sed him go­od-bye on one un­fur­ro­wed brow as he lay tuc­ked in­to the whi­te sa­tin li­ning of the fi­nest cas­ket mo­ney co­uld buy.

  Mom fol­lo­wed him so­on af­ter, gi­ving in to the can­cer that had be­en re­cently di­ag­no­sed, and which she was pre­pa­red to bat­tle va­li­antly as long as she had so­me thing to li­ve for.

  Without her hus­band, Con­nie June Re­min­g­ton ap­pa­rently had not­hing left to li­ve for. He was her who­le world. Ra­ised on the is­land a sto­ne's throw from Oak­ga­te Char­lot­te's mot­her was a spo­iled, pam­pe­red only child. Her pa­rents we­re mid­dle-aged when she ca­me along, and) had tho­ught they we­re in­fer­ti­le. The­ir da­ug­h­ter was the cen­ter of the­ir world for the rest of the­ir li­ves. The in­dul­gent, la­id-back Nor­ris to­ok over whe­re they left off cod­dling his wi­fe un­til the day he di­ed.

  Nothing co­uld fill the em­p­ti­ness in the or­p­ha­ned and wi­do­wed Con­nie June's li­fe. Not even a da­ug­h­ter, no mat­ter how Char­lot­te tri­ed.

  Not that she tri­ed all that hard.

  Her mot­her was ne­ver the do­ting pa­rent Daddy was. Nor­ris Re­min­g­ton sho­we­red his only child with both af­fec­ti­on and ma­te­ri­al go­ods.

  Now they're all go­ne, Char­lot­te thinks ble­akly. Not just her fat­her and her mot­her and Un­c­le Xavy, but her gran­d­fat­her, too.

  Yet no­ne of tho­se los­ses has had the shat­te­ring im­pact of anot­her loss, the one that we­ighs most he­avily on her he­art.

  The one she al­most didn't sur­vi­ve at all.

  You're sup­po­sed to bury yo­ur pa­rents and gran­d­pa­rents.

  Not yo­ur chil­d­ren.

  * * *

  Lianna dis­co­ve­red the cob­web- and dust-sh­ro­uded hid­den sta­ir­way en­ti­rely by ac­ci­dent one night not long af­ter mo­ving in­to her tem­po­rary qu­ar­ters at Oak­ga­te.

  Even with a flas­h­light and cell pho­ne re­as­su­ringly in hand it to­ok all her ner­ve that first night to des­cend the old wo­oden sta­ir­ca­se in­to the depths of the ho­use. When she re­ali­zed whe­re it led-to the ba­se­ment, with its own exit to the out­si­de wor­ld-she im­me­di­ately re­cog­ni­zed its po­ten­ti­al.

  Fre­edom.

  Lianna had be­en fe­eling stif­led by her over­p­ro­tec­ti­ve mot­her long be­fo­re they set­tled in at Oak­ga­te. At le­ast in Sa­van­nah, the­re was so­me rep­ri­eve from her mot­her's wat­c­h­ful eye. She co­uld hang out oc­ca­si­onal­ly at fri­ends' ho­uses, the squ­ares, the mall…

  But the­se days, her vi­sits to Sa­van­nah re­qu­ire the or­c­hes­t­ra­ti­on of an over­se­as mi­li­tary in­va­si­on.

  Basically, now that she's stuck out he­re in the mar­s­hes, the­re is no re­adily ac­ces­sib­le es­ca­pe.

  At le­ast, the­re wasn't. Not un­til she fo­und the hid­den pas­sa­ge­way… and Ke­vin Tin­k­s­ton.

  Even he has no idea exactly how she gets out of the ho­use for the­ir for­bid­den ren­dez­vo­us. She isn't abo­ut to je­opar­di­ze the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip by ad­mit­ting that the only way she can see him is to cre­ep thro­ugh an old tun­nel in the night li­ke a con­vict ma­king a ja­il­b­re­ak. At eig­h­te­en he's fi­ve ye­ars ol­der than her, but she told him she's al­most se­ven­te­en and he ap­pa­rently be­li­eves her, or do­esn't ca­re how old she is.

  If her mot­her ever knew she was ri­ding off in­to the night in a car with an ol­der boy-a man, re­al­ly-she wo­uld fre­ak.

  Look at how she went ber­serk just last we­ek when she fo­und out that Li­an­na hadn't spent the af­ter­no­on at the lib­rary with her fri­end Ca­sey and her mot­her, but at the mall with her fri­end De­vin and her step­fat­her. They we­re sup­po­sed to go to the lib­rary first, but it was clo­sed, and Ca­sey was sup­po­sed to be the­re too but she blew them off.

  "You li­ed to me!" Mom scre­ec­hed at Li­an­na, who de­ni­ed it ve­he­mently.

  She didn't lie. She just de­li­be­ra­tely fa­iled to men­ti­on that De­vin, whom her mot­her tho­ught was a bad in­f­lu­en­ce, was in­vol­ved in the plans. Or that De­vin's mot­her was sta­ying out at the­ir ho­use on Tybee and De­vin's step­fat­her, Ray, a long-ha­ired, re­por­tedly wo­ma­ni­zing mu­si­ci­an of whom Mom na­tu­ral­ly didn't ap­pro­ve, wo­uld be cha­pe­ro­ning.

  Lianna pus­hes away a re­ne­wed pang of gu­ilt, re­min­ding her­self that she had no cho­ice but to wit­h­hold the de­ta­ils that day. And that it isn't her fa­ult that her mot­her is un­re­aso­nably pro­tec­ti­ve.

  But at le­ast she wants you un­der her ro­of, she re­minds her­self.

  Unlike Daddy, who de­ci­ded not to fight for cus­tody and mo­ved away to Jac­k­son­vil­le.

  Lianna can usu­al­ly mus­ter the re­sen­t­ment to bla­me her mot­her for all of that, and mo­re. But not to­night. To­night, on the he­els of lo­sing Gran­dad­dy, may­be she's fe­eling a lit­tle sorry for her mot­her. The­re ha­ve be­en too many fu­ne­rals in Mom's li­fe, that's for su­re.

  And Mom has go­od re­ason to worry ex­ces­si­vely abo­ut her sa­fety-that much is de­fi­ni­tely true.

  But it isn't fa­ir that Li­an­na has to suf­fer now for the tra­gedy that hap­pe­ned when she was a lit­tle kid. And it isn't her fa­ult. No­ne of it is her fa­ult. Not her pa­rents di­vor­ce, nor her brot­her's de­ath that trig­ge­red it.

  Yeah, right. Su­re it isn't, says a moc­king vo­ice she can ne­ver qu­ite drown out with re­ason, no mat­ter how she tri­es.

  You know what you did.

  You '11 ne­ver tell, but you '11 ne­ver for­get, eit­her.

  And you '11 ne­ver stop pa­ying the pri­ce.

  Royce squ­e­ezes Char­lot­te's hand re­as­su­ringly, al­most as if he's re­ad her mind and knows she's thin­king abo­ut her lost son.

  Thank God, thank God, thank God for this kind, lo­ving man who des­cen­ded to the bot­tom­less pit of gri­ef with her and bro­ught them both back to li­fe.

  "What wo­uld I do wit­ho­ut you, Roy­ce?"

  "I was just thin­king the sa­me thing abo­ut you." He opens the do­or to the Oy­s­ter Bar, one of the­ir fa­vo­ri­te res­ta­urants on Ri­ver Stre­et. "I just wish I didn't ha­ve to le­ave to­mor­row mor­ning."

  Charlotte's smi­le fa­des. "Then don't."

  "I ha­ve to. But I'll be back be­fo­re you know it. I ha­ve the first flight out Mon­day mor­ning."

  "You me­an the flight that was la­te last ti­me so you mis­sed yo­ur con­nec­ti­on and got stuck in At­lan­ta all day?"

  "That wasn't be­ca­use it was la­te-that flight al­ways go­es on ti­me. It was a mec­ha­ni­cal prob­lem with the one from At­lan­ta."

  "All I re­mem
­ber is that we we­re sup­po­sed to spend the day with the fur­ni­tu­re de­sig­ner pic­king out our new li­ving ro­om set-and I had to do it on my own."

  "Right, and you got the one with the cab­ba­ge ro­se print that I ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve let you or­der, so co­unt yo­ur bles­sings."

  Her smi­le re­turns. "I'd ha­ve rat­her had bo­ring be­ige and you with me in­s­te­ad of stuck in At­lan­ta."

  "Well, this Mon­day mor­ning I pro­mi­se I'll be he­re be­fo­re you set fo­ot out of bed."

  "Mr. and Mrs. Mid­land! How ni­ce to see y'all to­night," the hos­tess says in sur­p­ri­se when she spots them. She qu­ickly adds, "I'm so sorry abo­ut yo­ur gran­d­fat­her."

  "Thank you, Li­sa."

  Charlotte sho­ots a glan­ce at Roy­ce, as if to say, See? I sho­uldn't be out in a res­ta­urant when the en­ti­re town must know to­day was Gran­dad­dy's fu­ne­ral.

  Royce shrugs as Li­sa go­es on, "I was so shoc­ked when I saw the wri­te-up abo­ut him in the Mor­ning News. I tho­ught he was go­ing to li­ve fo­re­ver."

  "So did we."

  There's a mo­ment of aw­k­ward si­len­ce. Then Li­sa checks to see if a tab­le is ava­ilab­le and, luc­kily, one is. 8 As they set­tle in be­si­de the lar­ge win­dow fa­cing Ri­ver Stre­et, Char­lot­te do­es her best not to po­ut abo­ut Roy­ce's up­co­ming trip.

  She sho­uld be happy that Aimee, Roy­ce's ne­arly grown da­ug­h­ter, re­cently wel­co­med her fat­her back; in­to her li­fe af­ter a long es­t­ran­ge­ment.

  And she is happy. She knows how tor­men­ted he's be­en, be­aring his da­ug­h­ter's and ex-wi­fe's bla­me for Theo's drow­ning de­ath at Ac­ho­co Is­land Be­ach. Roy­ce was in com­p­le­te ag­re­ement with them. He bla­med him­self, too.

  What pa­rent wo­uldn't?

  He was the one who had in­sis­ted on ta­king his son on va­ca­ti­on in Ge­or­gia, just the two "men" in the fa­mily, whi­le he sco­uted bu­si­ness lo­ca­ti­ons in Sa­van­nah.

  Neither Aimee nor Ka­ren wan­ted to le­ave New Or­le­ans. It was Roy­ce who wan­ted it. Roy­ce who con­vin­ced lit­tle Theo that it wo­uld be a go­od idea.

  Royce was the one who was the­re with his son on the be­ach that day. The only one. He was in char­ge. He tur­ned his back… if only for an in­s­tant.

  Having be­en in his sho­es, Char­lot­te is glad that her hus­band had fi­nal­ly ma­de pe­ace with his past. Re­al­ly. She re­j­o­iced with Roy­ce when his only sur­vi­ving child re­ac­hed out at last.

  It's just that he vi­si­ted Aimee for Mar­dis Gras, for Eas­ter in Ap­ril, and aga­in for her gra­du­ati­on, much to her fat­her's pri­de, in Lo­u­isi­ana just last month. She had be­en wor­king in a sa­lon sin­ce high scho­ol but af­ter a ca­tas­t­rop­hic hur­ri­ca­ne she had be­en in­s­pi­red to go to nur­sing scho­ol. Roy­ce was be­aming from the front row at her gra­du­ati­on, pre­su­mably alon­g­si­de his ex-wi­fe.

  Is it re­al­ly ne­ces­sary for him to fly back down the­re aga­in just to spend Aimee's twen­ty-fifth bir­t­h­day with her?

  You're not je­alo­us, are you? Char­lot­te asks her­self, not for the first ti­me.

  All right, may­be she is, a lit­tle. But ma­inly, she's wor­ri­ed.

  What if so­met­hing hap­pens to Roy­ce whi­le he's in New Or­le­ans?

  What if the­re's anot­her ter­rib­le hur­ri­ca­ne? It's the se­ason… Did he even bot­her to check the We­at­her Chan­nel?

  Or what if he's in an ac­ci­dent?

  Life is a se­ri­es of ac­ci­dents… so­me go­od, so­me bad…

  That's what Josie, the co­un­se­lor in the be­re­aved pa­rents gro­up, used to say whe­ne­ver so­me­body grew des­pon­dent, as­king why.

  You can't lo­ok for re­asons. You'll dri­ve yo­ur­self crazy. The­re are no re­asons. Things just hap­pen.

  There we­re ti­mes when Char­lot­te fo­und tho­se words oddly com­for­ting. Now she just finds them frig­h­te­ning.

  What if so­met­hing "just hap­pens" to Roy­ce?

  Stop it, Char­lot­te. He’ll be fi­ne. Why do you al­ways ha­ve to do this to yo­ur­self?

  Why, in­de­ed?

  Because I know what it is to be blin­d­si­ded by an uni­ma­gi­nab­le loss.

  Yes, so now what? Do you think that if you con­s­tantly dwell on the worst that can hap­pen, it won't?

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps she's do­omed to spend the rest of her li­fe ha­un­ted by an­xi­o­us what-ifs.

  No. You ha­ve to stop wor­rying, Char­lot­te. Stop.

  But what if…?

  What if the­se aren't me­re wor­ri­es?

  What if they're… pre­mo­ni­ti­ons?

  What if so­met­hing re­al­ly do­es hap­pen to Roy­ce?

  No! Stop!

  She has to let him go. This is the first bir­t­h­day he'll be ce­leb­ra­ting with his da­ug­h­ter sin­ce she was in her te­ens. The pla­ne tic­ket was pur­c­ha­sed long be­fo­re Gran­dad­dy's de­ath.

  But I ne­ed you, too, Char­lot­te longs to pro­test. Es­pe­ci­al­ly now. Don't le­ave me alo­ne in that ho­use with a da­ug­h­ter who isn't spe­aking to me, an aunt who of­ten do­esn't re­cog­ni­ze me, and tho­se co­usins…

  Not to men­ti­on the ghosts, which pro­bably now in­c­lu­de Gran­dad­dy's.

  If she says all that to Roy­ce, he'll un­do­ub­tedly fe­el even mo­re gu­ilty than he al­re­ady do­es. He'll qu­ite pos­sibly chan­ge his mind abo­ut le­aving.

  But whi­ning to get one's way is a most unat­trac­ti­ve cha­rac­te­ris­tic, as Char­lot­te's mot­her li­ked to re­mind her.

  There's not­hing to do but hold her bre­ath and let go.

  This de­ser­ted stretch of be­ach is in a co­ve that li­es, mer­ci­ful­ly, a few mi­les north of the pub­lic be­ach whe­re both Adam and Theo drow­ned.

  But as Li­an­na wat­c­hes Ke­vin spre­ad out a blan­ket, it's all she can do to ke­ep her fe­et firmly ro­oted in the sand.

  Listening to the surf, bre­at­hing the warm salt bre­eze, it's all co­ming back.

  "Thirsty?" Ke­vin asks, lo­oking up as he pulls so­met­hing from the bac­k­pack he was to­ting.

  About to say No, and Ple­ase ta­ke me ho­me, Li­an­na re­ali­zes what it is.

  A bot­tle of wi­ne.

  She and her fri­ends ha­ve snuck eno­ugh tas­tes from the­ir pa­rents' li­qu­or sup­pli­es in the past ye­ar for Li­an­na to re­cog­ni­ze a for­tu­ito­us es­ca­pe ro­ute when she se­es one.

  "I'll ha­ve a sip," she he­ars her­self say, as she sinks on­to the blan­ket be­si­de a smi­ling Ke­vin.

  "Did you re­mem­ber to put that lef­to­ver po­ta­to sa­lad in­to the bag with yo­ur san­d­wich?" Mi­mi asks as, Cam in tow, she fol­lows Jed to the tiny kit­c­hen with its crac­ked li­no­le­um, war­ped cup­bo­ard do­ors, and scrat­c­hed la­mi­na­te co­un­ter­tops.

  "No, but I don't want it."

  "Are you su­re?"

  "Positive. My sto­mach's a lit­tle qu­e­asy to­night."

  "Again?"

  "Not too bad. But I can't go aro­und eating all that po­ta­to sa­lad an­y­way. I'm get­ting a gut, see?" Jed pats his sto­mach.

  "Where?" 'The­re." He pin­c­hes an ima­gi­nary inch.

  She sha­kes her he­ad. "I don't see a gut, but even if you had one, I'd think it's cu­te."

  "Really? Then ke­ep ma­king po­ta­to sa­lad and tho­se ho­me­ma­de bis­cu­its you ga­ve me yes­ter­day. By Chris­t­mas I'll lo­ok li­ke San­ta." He le­ans in and plants a kiss on her che­ek as she po­urs milk in­to a sippy cup for Cam.

  "Daddy, is it Chris­t­mas? Is San­ta co­ming?" the lit­tle boy asks as his fat­her swings him up in­to his arms.

  "Not for six mo­re months, and only if you're go­od," Jed tells him. "Which me­ans no mo­re flus­hing ti�
�ling! down the potty."

  "What abo­ut pee pee?"

  "Pee pee, yes. An­y­t­hing el­se, no."

  "What abo­ut-"

  "Hey, you're abo­ut to sa­bo­ta­ge the potty tra­ining, Jed," Mi­mi warns, ta­king Ca­me­ron from him with a la­ugh.

  'Just trying to pre­vent ha­ving the plum­ber he­re twi­ce in one we­ek," he says, ret­ri­eving his brown pa­per bag lunch from the frid­ge and he­ading for the back do­or. "See you all in the mor­ning."