The Final Victim(33)

"He isn't hurting. Those clothes he was wearing today cost more than a year's tuition at Lianna's school."

Tyler shrugs. "Maybe there's more to them than meets the eye."

"Maybe… But I've known them my whole life. They're family. I don't think they'll want an ugly, endless battle over this."

"Do you know what physiognomy is, Charlotte?"

She shakes her aching head.

"It's the ancient art of face-reading: studying physical features to determine temperament, character, personality… I've done some reading on the subject. Some trial lawyers-not me-consult physiognomists about their clients, witnesses, prospective jurors…"

Unsure what he's getting at, she murmurs, "It sounds fascinating."

"It is-not that I'm inclined to put much stock in such a subjective 'science.' Anyway, a Swiss essayist named Johann Kasper Lavater was the father of modern physiognomy. There are a number of well-known quotes that are attributed to him, but my favorite is: 'Say not that you know another entirely, until you have divided an inheritance with him. 'You'd be wise to keep that in mind, Charlotte."

She nods, pushing back her chair. "I will. I just wish I knew why Grandaddy did what he did."

"I'm afraid his reasoning was buried with him," Tyler says with a shrug. "All we can do now is see that his final wishes are carried out."

*

Mimi hurls the white rectangle toward Dr. Redmond, only to have it flutter benignly onto his desk. She wishes it had been something jagged, and heavy… something that would injure him the way he had just ripped into her.

"Mrs. Johnston, please take the card. You're going to need it"

"I know where that office is." It's located on the mainland, between the Achoco Island causeway and the interstate, housed in a renovated ranch house painted in deceptively cheerful tulip shades: yellow clapboard with red shutters and trim. "I've been there."

She squeezes her eyes closed, remembering that awful August day three summers ago. It was she who had to go make the arrangements for her father. Neither of her parents was able to accept the inevitability of his death. Maybe that lingering hope is what helped him to survive for as long as he did-much longer than the specialists and even the hospice workers anticipated.

Well, this time, with Jed, it's Mimi who will refuse to give up hope.

"Mrs. Johnston, I understand how difficult this is-"

"Difficult?" she shrieks. "You sit there handing out death sentences and call it 'difficult'?"

"Mimi, for God's sake, stop it!"

Startled, she closes her mouth and looks at Jed at last.

She immediately wishes she hadn't. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. ￡ "We don't have money for any kind of treatment, and the treatment doesn't work anyway, and I don't have a chance. Okay?"

"No, Jed. Not okay." She's crying, too. "We're not going to walk out of here and give up."

"What choice do I have? I'm going to die."

"We're not going to let that happen. We have to fight" She chooses the pronoun deliberately, refusing to let him shoulder his fate alone.

We. Not I.

We're in it together, Jed, until death do us part.

And death, as far as Mimi is concerned, isn't an option.

Money.

It all comes down to money.

A vast sum.

A sum that, unbeknownst to Jed, may not be out of reach at all.

CHAPTER 5
"You've reached Royce Maitland Network Consulting. Please leave a detailed message at the tone and we will return your call."

There's a long pause before the tone-too long. Why hasn't Charlotte ever noticed that before?

Maybe it just seems endless today, because she's so anxious-desperate, really-to speak with her husband.

"Royce, it's me. I already tried your cell but it went right into voice mail. Are you still in your meeting? Or are you there working? Pick up if you are… Royce?"

She waits for a click and her husband's reassuring voice.

It doesn't come.

"Okay. Please call me as soon as you can. I need to talk to you."

It takes three stabs at the cell phone's keypad with a shaky index finger before she manages to press the end button.

She stashes the phone back in her purse.

Now what?

Her migraine is growing worse. The car is stifling: doors closed, windows rolled up. She reaches for the keys she tossed onto the passenger's seat when she got in.

She can't just sit here in the parking lot of Tyler Hawthorne's law firm all day, trying to digest what just happened.

But she isn't particularly anxious to go home, either.

Not with Phyllida and Gib inevitably waiting there to pounce on her.

She fumbles with the key ring, pushing aside a plastic-framed souvenir photo: of herself and Royce, posing before a picture-perfect artificial backdrop of the Grand Canyon. They were there in May, for their anniversary. In reality, the canyon was shrouded in mist that day.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

Finding the right key, she pushes it into the ignition.

"Grandaddy, what have you done?" she whispers, resting her forehead against the steering wheel.