The Final Victim(46)

Which it isn't.

It's her room now, and has been for years. Gilbert had it finished off nicely for her: whitewashed walls, carpeting, a slight drop ceiling to conceal the rafters.

Most of the family's unused junk-household clutter, dusty photograph albums, vintage clothing heaped in steamer trunks, forgotten correspondence from forgotten people-is relegated to one windowless, unfinished storage room beneath the eaves.

She really should ask somebody to move some of this extra furniture in there-if there's room. Which there probably isn't She expertly steers her chair around a cafe table and chairs that once stood in the first-floor atrium, before Charlotte's husband moved in with his exercise equipment.

"Isn't this nice, Aunt Jeanne?" Charlotte asked, when Royce carried the table and chairs up to the third floor. "Now you'll have a place for people to sit and eat lunch with you."

Yes, but nobody, except Melanie, ever does.

I'd do anything for you, hon…

God bless Melanie.

Having reached the door at last, Jeanne stops rolling and listens intently for some movement below.

All is silent.

Still, maybe it's too risky.

What if she gets caught?

She weighs the chances of being seen by each of the three current occupants of the second floor.

There's Nydia, whom Jeanne has never liked, not from the very start. She has a feeling the sentiment is mutual. The housekeeper comes and goes like a cat, as if she's sneaking around the place, whether she is or not For all Jeanne knows, she's lying in wait at the foot of the stairs, hoping to catch Jeanne up to something illicit.

Then there's Lianna. Charlotte's daughter leaves her room almost as infrequently as Jeanne leaves hers. At least, Lianna doesn't come and go by traditional means. So, odds are against Jeanne running into her in the second-floor hall.

As for Phyllida, there's no telling what she's doing with herself now that her husband and son have abandoned her at Oakgate, without a car. But she's the least aware of the household's normal rhythms, and the least likely to realize that Jeanne doesn't belong where she's about to venture.

The elevator is out of the question-it's so creaky it would alert the entire household to Jeanne's movements.

She opens the door and pauses once more, the wheelchair's tires aligned with the threshold.

Silence below.

Aware of the danger if she goes too far, she inches painstakingly forward to the head of the steep flight of stairs before setting the brake.

Then she stands and makes her way quickly down the steps to the second floor… and her late brother's private quarters.

CHAPTER 7
Jed has been sleeping ever since Mimi got home around lunchtime. Now, as she sits on the couch reading Are You My Mother? to Cameron for at least the tenth time in a row, she hears a movement in the doorway.

Looking up, she sees her husband standing there.

"Hey…" She lowers the book. "How are you feeling?"

"Great," he says, either out of sarcasm, or a valiant effort to put up a good act in front of Cam.

Mimi can't tell which, as the inflection is contorted by a flinch of pain.

"Here, sit down." She tosses the book aside, to Cameron's immediate protest, and rises to help him.

But Jed shakes off her supportive hand beneath his elbow, grunting, "I'm fine," as he makes his way toward the nearest chair.

Mimi gazes helplessly at him. He isn't fine.

"You need to take a Hydrocodone, Jed."

"I took one earlier."

"It wore off."

"How do you know? Are you psychic?"

Ignoring the definite sarcasm that time, she says, "I can tell you're in pain, and you don't have to be. That's why the doctor gave you the drugs." 'They mess with my head, and they knock me out" Jed eases himself into the chair. "Plus, we can't afford them. You know that. They're costing us a fortune."

So that's why he's taking the prescription pain pills so sparingly. Tears spring to her eyes as she says, "Jed, you have to take your medicine. Please… I can't stand seeing you tossing and turning in bed all night long."

He looks up, studies her face for a moment. Then he says simply, "I'm not taking it during the day. Just at night, so I won't keep you awake."

"Jed, that's not what I-"

"I know, Mimi. Come on, let's drop it." He tilts his head meaningfully in their son's direction. "I'll be all right. Cam, buddy, come over here."

Swiping a hand across her moist cheeks, Mimi watches the little boy reluctantly climb off the couch and cross the carpet to his father's side.

"Hi, Daddy," Cam says warily.

Gone is the exuberant child who once wrestled in his father's arms and showered him with kisses. Gone is the big, strong Daddy who carried his son effortlessly on strong shoulders and made him feel safe.

They haven't told Cameron about Jed's disease, but it's obvious, even to a toddler, that something has changed.

In the past few days alone, Jed has lost even more weight, and his face has taken on a gaunt look Mimi's seen before. She saw it settle over her father's features not long before he died of lung cancer.

That look scares her.

It scares her to death, but she hasn't given up. Not by a long shot.