The Final Victim(77)

But Royce was determined to get out of there regardless, and the doctors agreed to release him Friday afternoon, just in time for the weekend.

Longing for privacy, what with the media going crazy over the scandal of Gib's arrest, Charlotte nevertheless can't help being jittery about the prospect of caring for Royce at home. She wanted to hire a full-time visiting nurse, but Royce wouldn't hear of it.

"I'll be good as new in a couple of days," he proclaimed heartily.

That bravado disappeared somewhere during the painstaking journey through the gathering dusk, up the front steps and across the portico.

Charlotte and Aimee both urged him to agree to let them bring a wheelchair along, but Royce is determined to go on his own steam from here on in.

Thank goodness Aimee has agreed to put her resume and post-graduation job hunt on hold for a while longer, to stay and help. As she pointed out to Royce, she's an RN now. Who better suited to handle the task?

"You're not still feeling dizzy?" Charlotte asks, resting a hand on Royce's cheek.

Aimee warned her they'd better keep an eye on him for possible fever and infection, but he doesn't feel unusually warm. The doctor wouldn't have let him leave without making sure he was fine, and it hasn't even been an hour since he left the hospital to return to Oakgate.

"No, I'm fine now. Really. Walking all that way just took a lot out of me, that's all." He sighs. "Maybe I can sleep down here tonight."

Charlotte looks dubiously at the nineteenth-century couch, with its low arms and back, and wood moldings bordering the cushions. It wouldn't make the most comfortable bed in the world.

Aimee speaks up as if she's read Charlotte's thoughts, "I bet we can arrange to rent one of those hospital beds for a few days, Daddy. Until you can make it upstairs to your bedroom again."

Sensing Royce is about to protest, Charlotte quickly agrees, "That's a great idea-and I can sleep right here on the couch in case you need anything."

"No way am I making you sleep on this thing," Royce tells her. "We'll both sleep in our own bed. I'm sure the stairs will be no problem."

Aimee shakes her head, looking at Charlotte as if to say, He's too stubborn for his own good.

Charlotte, who wishes Royce hadn't repeatedly pushed aside the elevator issue in his eagerness to spring himself from hospital care, nevertheless isn't particularly anxious to spend another night in bed without her husband beside her.

"Is it good to be home?" she asks, plumping a throw pillow behind his neck as he settles back with a sigh of relief.

"I'm not home," he reminds her with a faint smile. "Not yet."

It takes her a perplexed moment to figure out what he means.

Oh. Of course. He's referring to their house: the one on Oglethorpe Avenue.

The house where he was gunned down.

She murmurs her agreement and turns her back to flip on a table lamp so he won't see her expression.

How can he even want to go back there after what happened?

It's like the beach all over again…

Except Royce lived.

And Adam's death was an accident.

What happened to Royce was not.

Now Gib is in jail, thus far unable to raise the sizeable bail. Apparently, he doesn't have a penny to his name. His bank accounts are all but empty, and he had liquidated all his investments a few years ago.

He turned to his family for help, but Phyllida claims to be incapable of coming up with the money and their mother doesn't have it, either.

Charlotte knows because she overheard Phyllida's end of a long-distance conversation with Aunt Susan.

It started out in a fairly composed manner, with Phyllida saying, "No, my house is already mortgaged up to the hilt, and even if it weren't, I wouldn't risk losing it…1 know he's my brother… I know… No, we can't do that… Because I don't trust him not to take off and leave the country, that's why."

Knowing how Aunt Susan always doted on her son, Charlotte wasn't surprised by the obvious argument that ensued. It wound up with Phyllida tearfully saying, more than once, "I know, Mommy, but I can't" and "We just don't have that kind of money."

Whether Phyllida was telling the truth and whether her regret was real remained unclear to Charlotte until the call ended with a slammed receiver. Phyllida's quiet sobs were barely audible, which convinced Charlotte that for once, her cousin's emotional display was real.

But Charlotte didn't go in to comfort her. The two have kept a cordial distance all week, ever since Gib was taken out of here in handcuffs.

Phyllida cried then, too. But when her brother turned to beg her to help him, she literally turned her back as he was led out the door.

"Do you honestly believe Gib could have done something like this, Charlotte?"she asked afterward, more than once, in disbelief. "Do you honestly think he's guilty?"

Charlotte's answer is always the same.

Yes.

What else is there to think? What other conclusion can be drawn from the evidence that was found in his room?

He admitted that the shoes were his, but denied wearing them on the night in question.

He also vehemently denied ever having removed the cufflinks from his grandfather's jewelry box, much less having worn them. No, he had no idea how one landed in the cemetery and the other on a shirt that was, indeed, his own. But he didn't know how any of that stuff got into his box spring.