The Final Victim(44)

No comment from her. There's no arguing with that.

"Whatever happened to that girl?" Gib asks, reaching over to casually brush her hair back from her face.

She died with Theo Maitland on the beach that day.

That's what happened.

No…

No, it isn't .

She died in your arms, Gib, on the beach that night.

Aloud, she says merely, "She grew up," and flinches as his fingers brush her cheek.

"Happens to the best of us."

Not you, Gib. You'll never grow up.

He shifts his position on the bench, moving his hand away from her hair at last. "As much as I'd like to talk about the good old days, surely you didn't ask me to meet you here for that."

"No," she admits, "I didn't."

"And you didn't want to invite yourself along with me tonight, either… did you?"

"Where are you going?"

He hesitates slightly, as if still trying to make up his mind-not just about inviting her, but about where he's actually headed.

'There's a gallery opening on River Street," he says. "Want to come?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." He's watching her intently. "What do you want?"

She takes a deep breath and holds it. Once she plunges ahead with this part of the plan, there will be no turning back.

This is crazy. I should get out of here, she tells herself frantically, even as she maintains her outward composure. I should tell him to go to hell, and I should run back to my normal life as fast as I can.

Except…

That normal life-that precious, precious normal, everyday life-is no longer waiting for her.

She has no choice but to muster every bit of courage she possesses and tell Gib Remington exactly what she wants-needs-from him… and why.

"I don't care what the judge said, you are not leaving tins house this weekend… or until school starts, for that matter," Charlotte hurls at Lianna, who stares sullenly from the haven of her unmade bed.

"That so isn't fair."

"It so wasn't fair of you to break the rules by lying and sneaking around."

"At least I didn't break the law, like you are. Daddy is supposed to get to see me every other weekend."

Charlotte bites her lip to keep from retorting that Vincent has been free to see his daughter every other weekend for the past five years, per their custody agreement, and he's never bothered to uphold it.

She swore during the divorce that no matter how bitter things got between her and Vince, she wouldn't say a bad word about him to Lianna.

Charlotte's ex-husband might be a snake, but he's her daughter's father nonetheless. Someday, Lianna is bound to figure out on her own what kind of man he really is. Until his inevitable free-fall from the pedestal, Charlotte intends to keep her opinion to herself.

That doesn't make it easy to see Lianna constantly upholding him as her hero, with Charlotte perpetually cast in the roll of shrew-and now, jailor.

"If your father is in town and he wants to see you, he can come here to Oakgate," she manages to say, quite reasonably, as she stoops to pick up a rumpled pair of shorts from the floor by the hamper.

"He doesn't want to come here."

"How do you know? Did you ask him?"

"I don't have to. He hates it here. He knows he isn't welcome."

"That's not true," Charlotte protests, fighting the urge to cross her fingers against her own white lie. "He can come here anytime he wants. Nobody's stopping him."

"You are."

"Lianna, I never said-"

"Maybe you didn't say it, but he can tell you hate him. Everyone can tell."

Charlotte shrugs, not quite sure who "everyone" is, but not about to argue, either.

"This room is a mess," she tells her daughter, "so you can get busy cleaning it now."

"I'm still sleeping." Lianna's voice is muffled by her coverlet as she rolls over, toward the far end of the bed.

"You sound wide-awake to me," Charlotte says, looking at her watch. It's getting late. She still has to change out of the gray jersey shorts and white Nike T-shirt she threw on this morning after her shower, and it would be nice if she had an extra few seconds to do something with her hair. She's had it stuck in a careless ponytail the last few days.

Royce should be back any minute now from his tennis game at the club, and then they're planning on heading to Savannah. The contractor has been nagging them for the last few days to pick out paint shades for their new master bedroom and the trim in the walk-in pantry off the remodeled kitchen.

"It's past noon. You need to get out of bed. Now." She pulls the coverlet off Lianna. "And be sure to make it this time."

"Isn't that Nydia's job?"

"No, it isn't Nydia's job. It's yours."

"She's the housekeeper."

"She's your grandfather's housekeeper, not yours. You can make your bed here just like you do at home. Got it?"

"Got it," Lianna grumbles, swinging her long, bare legs around to the floor. "What about Dad?"

"I'll call him and tell him to come here."