The Final Victim(75)

"Fried chicken for breakfast?" Aimee asked dubiously. "Does your mother give you that at home?"

"My mother would probably spoon-feed me Gerber strained peaches from a little jar if she had her way," Lianna retorted.

Aimee laughed. "Parents are tough, aren't they? I'm twenty-five and my father still calls me 'Baby Girl.' Order what you want. I just can't believe they really serve fried chicken at this hour."

Aimee just ordered a cup of coffee, saying she never eats breakfast. "If I did, I'd look like… well, like her," she said with a tilt of her head toward the large woman adding napkins and condiments to her loaded tray of chicken and fries.

Lianna told herself that that was really mean, even though it was the kind of thing her friends would say, and she would giggle at.

The truth is, she doesn't want to like Aimee. She never wanted a sister, older or younger, step or otherwise, no matter what her mother likes to think.

Now, with Devin apparently waiting for her to go into detail about Aimee, she just shrugs and asks, "Are we going inside, or what?"

"Nah. My mother and Ray are still sleeping. They were out late at some party, and I bet they're really hung-over. Let's just get out of here."

Lianna's first thought is that her mother probably thinks she's spending the day safely at Devin's house.

Her next thought is, who cares what her mother thinks? If she was so eager to unload Lianna for the day that she doesn't even remember she's been grounded, that's her problem.

"Where do you want to go?" she asks Devin.

"Do you have any money with you?"

Aimee asked the same thing, just before she pulled up at Devin's.

When Lianna said no, she reached into her purse and pulled out a couple of twenties. "Here," she said easily. "Take it. You know… in case you and your friend want to do something later."

"Like what?"

"Like go to a movie, or shopping, or something. I don't know, what do y'all usually do when you hang out?"

Wondering again if she was being baited by a nosy stepsister on behalf of a nosier mother, Lianna just shrugged.

But she took the money with mumbled thanks.

When she nods, Devin decides, "We'll go to the mall, then. I need to get some stuff for school."

"It doesn't even start for weeks."

"Whatever. It's an excuse to buy new clothes, right?"

Lianna grins. "Right."

"Your mother's not going to show up here looking for you any time soon, is she?"

"No way. She's going to the hospital. Trust me, she won't even think about me for hours."

"That's great."

Yeah, Lianna thinks, following Devin back down the steps to the street. Just great.

Tyler closes the door to Gilbert's private study with a quaking hand, trying not to remember what transpired the last time he crossed this particular threshold, with Silas Neville on his heels.

He pauses to gather his composure before turning to face his late friend's grandson.

Gib has taken a seat-or rather, collapsed-on the couch across from the antique desk where generations of Remington men have conducted their very successful business dealings.

Never, Tyler thinks, would any of them have imagined that one day, the lone remaining Remington son-the only hope for carrying on the family name-would be sitting here accused of an unthinkable crime.

Tyler can't help but acknowledge the bitter irony: After the extraordinary lengths Gilbert went to in order to preserve the legacy, this young, cocky successor has seemingly destroyed the whole damned thing.

He knew plenty of brash young men like Gib Remington in his days at Telfair Academy. Arrogant offspring of wealthy families, believing that the rules didn't apply to them. They started out breaking curfews.

Some-like, perhaps, Gib Remington-went on to break laws.

I was one of them, Tyler thinks, a wave of nausea swishing through his gut.

But that was long ago. Too long ago to dwell on now-or here.

This is about a new generation-not the Telfair Trio.

Gib's face is drawn; he's obviously quite shaken.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" Tyler studiously avoids Gilbert's tidy desk as he pulls a chair adjacent to the couch and sits down to face his would-be client Gib shrugs, refusing to meet his gaze. 'Just that I haven't done anything wrong."

Tyler nods. It's not as though he expected a confession. He crosses his legs and leans forward, his chin resting on his fist as he studies Gib's face.

If he subscribed to the theories of Lavater's physiognomy, as some trial lawyers-and, subconsciously, jurors-do, he would deem Gib Remington innocent just based on his looks. With that shock of blond hair, wide-set eyes the shade of a summer sea, and strong jaw, he's a mirror image of his grandfather at that age, right down to the cowlick. In other words, Gib, like Gilbert before him, is the polar opposite of the beady-eyed, unshaven caricature of a criminal.

So what does that tell you?Tyler asks himself wryly.

All right, then, when it comes to nonverbal indications of possible guilt, he's far better off considering demeanor-and Gib's is telling, particularly in response to the next question.

"You might as well tell me now: is there any chance at all that those detectives are going to turn up anything of interest when they search your room?"