The Final Victim

by that's me

  Then the­re's Li­la, who ke­eps tel­ling her how happy Wills is go­ing to be when his mommy co­mes ho­me to ta­ke ca­re of him.

  Lila. She'll ha­ve to be let go. If not im­me­di­ately, then as so­on as Phylli­da can bring her­self to do it. The­re's no mo­ney for ho­use­hold staff, not now. She's be­en scra­ping to­get­her the nanny's sa­lary every two we­eks as it is.

  Not to men­ti­on the way she and Bri­an ha­ve be­en li­ving off the­ir cre­dit cards for a co­up­le of ye­ars now, un­da­un­ted by the mo­un­ting in­te­rest and fi­nan­ce char­ges.

  Phyllida al­ways knew that even if Gran­dad­dy li­ved to be a hun­d­red-and well he mig­ht-her in­he­ri­tan­ce wo­uld co­me along even­tu­al­ly to ba­il them out and gu­aran­tee that Wills's col­le­ge tu­iti­on will be pa­id, no mat­ter whe­re he wants to go.

  There was ne­ver a ne­ed to worry abo­ut what they owed; ne­ver a re­ason to stop spen­ding. What's a few hun­d­red tho­usand dol­lars in debt when you're worth mil­li­ons?

  Not an­y­mo­re.

  She's ne­ver go­ing to be we­althy.

  She's ne­ver go­ing to be an ac­t­ress.

  She's ne­ver go­ing to be an­y­t­hing she dre­amed of.

  As she pas­ses Me­la­nie on the sta­irs, she won­ders what on earth she's go­ing to do. How are she and Bri­an go­ing to pay off any of that debt now that the pro­mi­se of a vast win­d­fall has be­en whis­ked from the­ir fu­tu­re? How will they sur­vi­ve?

  These last few days, as her an­xi­ety es­ca­la­ted, she co­uld only, as­su­me that Gib, too, must ha­ve felt this… des­pe­ra­te. This ho­pe­les­sly trap­ped, fa­cing a li­fes­t­y­le un­fit for a Re­min­g­ton.

  Unfit for po­or lit­tle Wills, who­se tod­dler cro­ni­es and the­ir nan­ni­es will con­ti­nue to me­et a few ti­mes a we­ek at one pa­la­ti­al Be­verly Hills spre­ad or anot­her whi­le Phylli­da pus­hes him on a swing in the park. Parks are still free, right? Swings are free?

  "Well, so­me of his fri­ends ha­ve yards that are big­ger than parks; the­ir pa­rents rent ca­ro­usels and pet­ting zo­os for bir­t­h­day par­ti­es. Whe­re will Wills ha­ve his? Chuck E. Che­ese?

  "Urn, Mrs. Har­per?"

  "Yes?" Ha­ving re­ac­hed the bot­tom of the sta­irs, she turns to lo­ok back at Me­la­nie, up at the top.

  "I just wan­ted to ask if the­re's an­y­t­hing I can do. If you ne­ed to talk, or an­y­t­hing. You know… You just lo­ok so up­set, and… I know what it's li­ke."

  Oh? Yo­ur brot­her was ar­res­ted on at­tem­p­ted mur­der char­ges, too?

  Phyllida curbs her ton­gue. She might not buy the wo­man's all-chip­per, all-the-ti­me act, but she sho­uldn't be ru­de to her. May­be she re­al­ly is just trying to help. At le­ast so­me­body aro­und he­re is.

  "Thank you," she says aw­k­wardly, wis­hing Me­la­nie wo­uld just con­ti­nue on to the next flight of sta­irs and le­ave her to her own bu­si­ness.

  But the nur­se go­es on, "I just know that you're far away from ho­me, and yo­ur lit­tle boy, and you might fe­el li­ke you're all alo­ne, and you might re­al­ly ne­ed a fri­end. Re­al­ly, I've be­en the­re."

  Phyllida nods and of­fers what she ho­pes is a ple­asant smi­le even as she thinks, Go away, will you? Just go away.

  But when Me­la­nie gets the hint and do­es mo­ves on, Phylli­da finds her­self fe­eling va­gu­ely aban­do­ned.

  Which is ri­di­cu­lo­us.

  Because she do­esn't want to talk to a nur­se abo­ut her prob­lems. She do­esn't want to talk to an­yo­ne.

  She just wants…

  What? To go ho­me? That isn't it. Not with the mess wa­iting for her in LA.

  All right, so what do­es she want?

  All I want right now, she thinks grimly, is to curl up and die.

  * * *

  In her ro­om, Li­an­na pulls on the dress she wo­re last we­ekend in an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on of se­e­ing her fat­her.

  He's co­ming back to Oak­ga­te to ta­ke her to din­ner to­night. It was his idea, to ma­ke up for the di­sap­po­in­t­ment of last we­ekend.

  She beg­ged her mot­her to let her go, and to her sur­p­ri­se, Char­lot­te re­len­ted. Ap­pa­rently, Li­an­na is no lon­ger gro­un­ded.

  Mom ne­ver sa­id an­y­t­hing abo­ut her ear­li­er pu­nis­h­ment when she pic­ked her up at De­vin's Mon­day night af­ter a long day at the hos­pi­tal. She was mo­re cor­di­al than usu­al to De­vin's pa­rents, and than­ked them for ke­eping Li­an­na all day and se­e­ing to it that she ate lunch and din­ner.

  Naturally, Mom co­uldn't ha­ve known that lunch was nac­hos at the mall fo­od co­urt, din­ner was three Krispy Kre­me do­nuts, and that De­vin's mot­her and step­fat­her didn't even know she was aro­und un­til right be­fo­re Mom sho­wed up to get her.

  The last few days, Li­an­na has be­en trying to work up the ner­ve to ask her mot­her for her cell pho­ne back. But she's af­ra­id to even re­mind her mot­her that she to­ok it away, just in ca­se she al­so for­got she gro­un­ded Li­an­na.

  She's al­so skit­tish abo­ut sne­aking out to me­et Ke­vin, tho­ugh he ke­eps ur­ging her to do it. She will, even­tul­ly, just not yet. It isn't just that she's af­ra­id she'll get ca­ug­ht-it's that she's af­ra­id of what will hap­pen bet­we­en the two of them when she's alo­ne with him aga­in.

  So she's spent an en­ti­re we­ek han­ging aro­und Oak­ga­te, bo­red out of her mind, unab­le even to spe­ak to her fri­ends and Ke­vin, un­less she calls them from the ma­in li­ne usu­al­ly with ze­ro con­ver­sa­ti­onal pri­vacy.

  There was no­body to talk to aro­und the ho­use but Nydia. Oh, and Aunt Je­an­ne's chat­ter­box nur­se, Me­la­nie, who li­kes to drift dow­n­s­ta­irs whe­ne­ver Aunt Je­an­ne is nap­ping.

  But an­y­t­hing, even to­tal so­ci­al iso­la­ti­on or lis­te­ning to Me­la­nie chirp on and on abo­ut her li­fe story, is bet­ter than go­ing back and forth to the hos­pi­tal in Sa­van­nah every day with her mot­her and Aimee.

  Her step­sis­ter ac­tu­al­ly had the ner­ve to of­fer to fix her ha­ir be­fo­re din­ner to­night. She's ta­ken on the an­no­ying ha­bit of knoc­king on Li­an­na's do­or in the eve­nings to see if she wants to go to a mo­vie, or shop­ping, or wha­te­ver.

  "No, thanks," Li­an­na sa­id curtly in res­pon­se to her ha­ir ma­ke­over of­fer. "I li­ke it the way it is, and so do­es my dad."

  "Oh, Li­an­na, I didn't me­an…" Aimee was im­me­di­ately all flus­te­red. "I just tho­ught it might be fun, you know… I ne­ver had a lit­tle sis­ter."

  You still don't, Li­an­na wan­ted to re­tort, but she ma­na­ged to hold her ton­gue.

  That was last night.

  She hasn't se­en Aimee all day, but she's be­gin­ning to fe­el a lit­tle gu­ilty. May­be she re­al­ly was just trying to be ni­ce, and not cri­ti­cal abo­ut Li­an­na's ap­pe­aran­ce.

  Still, who ne­eds anot­her grown-up han­ging aro­und the ho­use, trying to be all gir­ly-bud­dy? You'd think Aimee wo­uld go back ho­me to New Or­le­ans now that her fat­her is out of the hos­pi­tal, so things can get back to nor­mal aro­und he­re.

  But ap­pa­rently she's not, be­ca­use Li­an­na over­he­ard her and Mom tal­king this mor­ning abo­ut how Aimee's go­ing to stick aro­und aw­hi­le lon­ger to help.

  Why do­esn't Mom ask me to help? Li­an­na can't help but won­der. Why do­esn't she tre­at me li­ke a re­al per­son, in­s­te­ad of so­me an­no­ying kid who's just in the way?

  Thank go­od­ness for Dad. He sho­uld be he­re any se­cond.

  Lianna sur­veys her ref­lec­ti­on in the mir­ror.

  The dress is a lit­tle wrin­k­led, from be­ing on the flo­or over­night be­fo­re she res­cu­ed it and rep­la­ced it on a han­ger. May­be she sho­uld ha­ve at le­ast iro­ned it.
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  And her ha­ir isn't that gre­at. She re­al­ly ne­eds to ha­ve it cut, or… so­met­hing.

  But she do­esn't ne­ed Aimee. They aren't go­ing to be a happy lit­tle fa­mily to­get­her, no mat­ter what Mom wo­uld li­ke to think.

  The odd thing is…

  Well, Mom re­al­ly li­kes her. It's al­most as if, in Roy­ce's da­ug­h­ter, she's fo­und so­met­hing that's be­en mis­sing in her li­fe ever sin­ce…

  Adam.

  Yes.

  It's al­most as if Mom has al­lo­wed Aimee to fill that ga­ping vo­id left by his de­ath; as if she's fi­nal­ly fo­und a se­cond child aga­in.

  Well, no way is Li­an­na go­ing to con­si­der Aimee a rep­la­ce­ment for the ol­der sib­ling she lost.

  Just as Roy­ce isn't a rep­la­ce­ment for her re­al dad, and ne­ver will be.

  With a re­so­lu­te nod and a si­lent pra­yer, Li­an­na hur­ri­es to fi­nish get­ting re­ady for her din­ner da­te.

  Please, don't let an­y­t­hing ke­ep my dad from sho­wing up this ti­me.

  Please.

  "Alone at last," Roy­ce mur­murs, as Char­lot­te set­tles on the co­uch be­si­de him.

  Aimee has go­ne off to ma­ke so­me calls abo­ut ren­ting a hos­pi­tal bed for the par­lor, or so she cla­imed. Ac­cor­ding to Char­lot­te, she pro­bably just dis­c­re­etly wan­ted to gi­ve the two of them so­me pri­vacy af­ter a trying we­ek.

  Charlotte sighs. "I'm so glad you're back…"

  Home.

  This ti­me, ho­we­ver, she do­esn't add that part. She pro­bably do­esn't want to get in­to that aga­in.

  Good. Ne­it­her do­es he.

  "So am I." He stret­c­hes an arm along the back of the so­fa. "Co­me he­re."

  "I don't want to bump yo­ur leg."

  "Don't worry abo­ut it. My leg is fi­ne." He pats the cus­hi­on right be­si­de him. "I miss cud­dling with you. That's not all I miss," he adds sug­ges­ti­vely, "but the ot­her part's go­ing to ha­ve to wa­it."

  She smi­les and sli­des clo­se to him, le­aning her he­ad aga­inst his chest.

  For a mo­ment, they just sit con­ten­tedly.

  Royce sen­ses that Char­lot­te's mus­c­les are be­gin­ning to un­c­lench for the first ti­me all we­ek. She fe­els mo­re tightly wo­und than the an­ti­que clock on the man­tel.

  Its ste­ady tic­king is the only so­und in the ro­om, be­si­des a soft cho­rus of cric­kets that drifts thro­ugh the open win­dow as dusk set­tles over the gro­unds.

  "It's so qu­i­et," Roy­ce mur­murs, le­aning his he­ad back and clo­sing his eyes. 'That hos­pi­tal was so no­isy, all the ti­me."

  "It was pretty no­isy aro­und he­re, too, un­til the new un­lis­ted pho­ne num­ber kic­ked in yes­ter­day."

  That's right, Roy­ce re­mem­bers, she men­ti­oned this mor­ning that she was for­ced to ab­ruptly ter­mi­na­te the old one, thanks to in­ces­sant calls from the press. The Re­min­g­ton scan­dal has en­ve­lo­ped the re­gi­onal news for days now.

  There was even a news van par­ked out be­yond the sto­ne ga­te­way when they ar­ri­ved he­re. Aimee-who has no use for the nosy press and is qu­ite vo­cal abo­ut it-sa­id it was wor­se the ot­her day, when they re­tur­ned from the hos­pi­tal to find re­por­ters bro­ad­cas­ting li­ve from the lawn.

  Charlotte had for­got­ten to clo­se the ga­te when they'd left that mor­ning-it isn't a ha­bit an­yo­ne has be­en in for ye­ars. Of co­ur­se, the news crew had no qu­alms abo­ut tres­pas­sing.

  "I swe­ar, they're li­ke coc­k­ro­ac­hes-all they ne­ed to do is find a tiny crack in the fo­un­da­ti­on, and the next thing you know, who­le ar­mi­es are stre­aming in."

  Royce had to la­ugh at that. She al­ways did ha­ve a way with co­lor­ful me­tap­hors.

  Well, at le­ast the ma­in ho­use isn't vi­sib­le from the ga­te, which they ha­ve be­en ca­re­ful to ke­ep clo­sed ever sin­ce. The brick plan­ta­ti­on ho­me is well scre­ened by the long la­ne and all tho­se Spa­nish moss-dra­ped li­ve oaks, sa­fe from prying eyes-and ca­me­ras.

  "Are you in any pa­in?" Char­lot­te asks, idly stud­ying the la­bel of an oran­ge pres­c­rip­ti­on bot­tle. "Be­ca­use it says you can ta­ke this aga­in in an ho­ur."

  "No, I'm fi­ne." He wat­c­hes her set the bot­tle back on the tab­le be­si­de the co­uch, alig­ning it with the ot­her me­di­ca­ti­on they bro­ught ho­me. "Char­lot­te, may­be you sho­uld put tho­se away so­mew­he­re."

  "Oh, no you don't, Mis­ter," she says lightly. "No way are you go­ing to start in aga­in abo­ut how you're just fi­ne, and you don't ne­ed an­y­t­hing for the pa­in. The­re's no re­ason for you to suf­fer. You're ta­king the­se, Roy­ce, un­til the doc­tor tells you to stop."

  "No, that's not what I me­ant." He he­si­ta­tes, trying to phra­se it cor­rectly. "I just don't know if y'all sho­uld le­ave them out he­re whe­re an­yo­ne can… you know… find them. So­me of tho­se are nar­co­tics."

  "What are you get­ting at, Roy­ce? You don't think that Nydia or Phylli­da-"

  "No," he cuts in, "I don't."

  She sta­res at him.

  He gi­ves a slight nod.

  "Royce, she might ha­ve li­ed and snuck out to see an ol­der boy, but you're tal­king abo­ut drugs, he­re. I re­al­ly don't think-"

  "You sa­id you didn't trust her af­ter what hap­pe­ned. I don't, eit­her. And why le­ave the slig­h­test bit of tem­p­ta­ti­on in her path?"

  Charlotte sits in mo­ody si­len­ce, sta­ring in­to spa­ce.

  "I'm sorry," Roy­ce tells her af­ter a mi­nu­te. "You're right. The­re's no re­ason to think Li­an­na might help her­self to my me­di­ca­ti­on. That's ri­di­cu­lo­us."

  "It is ri­di­cu­lo­us."

  "I gu­ess af­ter se­e­ing how they kept the nar­co­tics in the hos­pi­tal un­der such tight con­t­rol, I co­uldn't help but think an­y­body co­uld just stum­b­le ac­ross the­se and help them­sel­ves."

  "Lianna wo­uld ne­ver do that. I know she's do­ne so­me aw­ful things, and I don't trust her as far as I can throw her when it co­mes to boys, but I know my da­ug­h­ter. She wo­uldn't to­uch drugs."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. You we­re right to con­si­der it. But you don't ha­ve to worry abo­ut it, or an­y­t­hing at all, for that mat­ter. Why don't you just rest now?"

  Charlotte stro­kes his che­ek gently, so­un­ding, and lo­oking, just as ex­ha­us­ted as he fe­els. Her fa­ce is drawn; her lo­vely vi­olet eyes un­der­s­co­red with dark cres­cents.

  "I'm af­ra­id I'm go­ing to fall as­le­ep," he tells her, al­lo­wing his own eye­lids to dro­op, just for a mo­ment.

  "Go ahe­ad. You ne­ed it."

  He sha­kes his he­ad, for­cing his eyes open. "Not yet. I ha­ven't be­en alo­ne with you in a we­ek; I'm not go­ing to was­te this op­por­tu­nity by be­ing un­con­s­ci­o­us."

  She smi­les. "How abo­ut if I put on so­me mu­sic?" "That so­unds go­od," he says aro­und a yawn, fig­h­ting sle­ep. "I'll just clo­se my eyes for a few se­conds whi­le you…"

  Hearing Me­la­nie clim­bing the sta­irs, hum­ming to her­self, Je­an­ne qu­ickly sli­des the bu­re­au dra­wer clo­sed. No ne­ed to ha­ve the nur­se catch her chec­king and rec­hec­king her pos­ses­si­ons. When the po­li­ce ma­de it up he­re, they ga­ve her ro­om only a cur­sory on­ce-over. They ne­ver tho­ught to se­arch be­ne­ath the wo­olen shawl spre­ad over an old lady's lap on a swel­te­ring af­ter­no­on.

  By the ti­me Me­la­nie re­en­ters the ro­om be­aring an aro­ma­tic tray of fo­od, Je­an­ne's whe­el­c­ha­ir has be­en tur­ned and she's on­ce aga­in fa­cing the win­dow, we­aring an ab­sent ex­p­res­si­on.

  "I he­ated up yo­ur din­ner, Je­an­ne," Me­la­nie an­no­un­ces in her bu­oyant way. "I even put it on a re­gu­lar pla­t
e for you for a chan­ge, and I bro­ught re­al sil­ver­wa­re, too."

  Yes, she did. And the me­al lo­oks even skim­pi­er on the go­od chi­na than it wo­uld ha­ve in the com­par­t­ments of a car­d­bo­ard tray.

  "Look what we ha­ve to­night, Je­an­ne! Tur­key and gravy, mas­hed po­ta­to­es, as­pa­ra­gus. Do­esn't that so­und go­od?"