The Final Victim(103)

"I'm sure it'll go sooner or later. The lights keep flickering." He exhales nervously. "Where is Nydia?"

"Still upstairs somewhere, I guess. I haven't heard her."

That doesn't mean she's not around, Royce thinks, knowing how the housekeeper tends to creep around the house, popping up where you least expect her.

For all he knows, she could be eavesdropping on the other side of the parlor door. It wouldn't surprise him in the least.

"This storm is nasty," Aimee comments, as the wind lashes at the closed parlor window.

"And Charlotte is out in it somewhere."

"I know. Try to get her on her cell again. Maybe she'll pick up this time. Here, I'll dial; you talk."

Royce nods, taking the receiver Aimee hands him.

She begins pressing buttons, but he quickly shakes his head.

"Wait, there's no dial tone."

"Sorry." She jiggles the cradle button, then begins dialing again.

"Still no dial tone," he says sharply. 'The phone is dead."

"What about your cell phone?"

"I have no idea where it even is. Probably in a pocket somewhere in my closet or the hamper." “I’ll go upstairs and look for it."

"I'll help you. It'll be faster."

"What about the stairs? And your leg?" Aimee asks.

"Don't worry. I'm fine… and everything else is going to be fine, too."

"I'm not worried."

"Yes, you are. About Charlotte. I can tell."

"So are you," she accuses.

"You're right. But I know her better than you do. There's no way she isn't doing everything in her power to get home. I'm sure she'll be here any minute now."

"I hope so."

"She will." He opens his arms wide. "Come over here, scared little Baby Girl…"

"Don't call me that," she protests, but her mouth quirks wiuh a suppressed smile.

"You come over here and let your daddy give you a hug," he says, grinning too as he pulls her close and tenderly strokes her blond hair. "We're going to be just fine. I promise."

In the library, Mimi sits before the microfiche screen, disappointed.

Obituaries sometimes mention the precise cause of death-or at least indicate what it was, with a request for a donation to a charitable fund for Kepton-Manning Syndrome.

But according to every old newspaper she checked, Connie June Remington "died at home after an extended illness. Donations can be made to the new Remington Ambulatory Wing at-"

The lights flicker.

Disconcerted, Mimi glances up, then out the window at the gale. She has to get out of here. She really does.

But first, she'll check the Internet for any further information on Charlotte's mother.

"Excuse me, ma'am, the library is going to be closing early because of the storm."

Not looking up from the computer keyboard, Mimi nods. "I'll be finished in just a few minutes."

Googling Connie June Remington's name yields no new information.

Even as Mimi tells herself that she should give up and go home, her left index finger strays toward the T key, and her right immediately slips one space over, to the H.

No! Don't do it! That has nothing to do with this.

No, it doesn't, but seeing Royce Maitland today brought it all back.

It doesn't take much.

Her middle finger on the left hand presses the E key.

Why are you doing this? What do you think you 're going to find?

At the time, she refused to read the papers, or watch the news, or listen to people discussing the tragedy. And never once, in the past three years since, has she allowed herself to look for it on the Internet.

But maybe it's time she did.

Maybe seeing it here, and facing head-on her own role in the tragedy, will help her to put it to rest. Maybe she'll stop having that awful nightmare that haunts her even now, when she's sleeping beside her dying husband, living a nightmare that's even worse.

After Theo, she quickly types Maitland, hits enter, and holds her breath.

Detective Dorado was right. The storm has definitely begun, and with a vengeance.

Charlotte keeps one eye on the rain-spattered window, and the swaying trees beyond, as she calls her home telephone number.

A recorded voice comes on the line. "All circuits are busy. Please try your call again later."

She looks at Dorado, who must have overheard.

He nods. 'Try again." '’They said later."

"It's later. Try again."

She does. This time, there's a click, followed by a rapid busy signal.

"Oh, I must have dialed the old number," she realizes, and disconnects the call. "Sorry."

"Try again."

"I will," she snaps-and immediately wishes she hadn't. Not at him, anyway. He's just trying to do his job-trying to help her, and Royce-she should appreciate his kinder, gentler approach, as opposed to his partner's.

It's just that her nerves are rapidly fraying. Genuine premonition or irrational fear… all she wants is to get back home before something happens.

She calls the number again, more slowly this time, taking care to dial the right one.