The Final Victim(80)

Her stepsister actually had the nerve to offer to fix her hair before dinner tonight. She's taken on the annoying habit of knocking on Lianna's door in the evenings to see if she wants to go to a movie, or shopping, or whatever.

"No, thanks," Lianna said curtly in response to her hair makeover offer. "I like it the way it is, and so does my dad."

"Oh, Lianna, I didn't mean…" Aimee was immediately all flustered. "I just thought it might be fun, you know… I never had a little sister."

You still don't, Lianna wanted to retort, but she managed to hold her tongue.

That was last night.

She hasn't seen Aimee all day, but she's beginning to feel a little guilty. Maybe she really was just trying to be nice, and not critical about Lianna's appearance.

Still, who needs another grown-up hanging around the house, trying to be all girly-buddy? You'd think Aimee would go back home to New Orleans now that her father is out of the hospital, so things can get back to normal around here.

But apparently she's not, because Lianna overheard her and Mom talking this morning about how Aimee's going to stick around awhile longer to help.

Why doesn't Mom ask me to help? Lianna can't help but wonder. Why doesn't she treat me like a real person, instead of some annoying kid who's just in the way?

Thank goodness for Dad. He should be here any second.

Lianna surveys her reflection in the mirror.

The dress is a little wrinkled, from being on the floor overnight before she rescued it and replaced it on a hanger. Maybe she should have at least ironed it.

And her hair isn't that great. She really needs to have it cut, or… something.

But she doesn't need Aimee. They aren't going to be a happy little family together, no matter what Mom would like to think.

The odd thing is…

Well, Mom really likes her. It's almost as if, in Royce's daughter, she's found something that's been missing in her life ever since…

Adam.

Yes.

It's almost as if Mom has allowed Aimee to fill that gaping void left by his death; as if she's finally found a second child again.

Well, no way is Lianna going to consider Aimee a replacement for the older sibling she lost.

Just as Royce isn't a replacement for her real dad, and never will be.

With a resolute nod and a silent prayer, Lianna hurries to finish getting ready for her dinner date.

Please, don't let anything keep my dad from showing up this time.

Please.

"Alone at last," Royce murmurs, as Charlotte settles on the couch beside him.

Aimee has gone off to make some calls about renting a hospital bed for the parlor, or so she claimed. According to Charlotte, she probably just discreetly wanted to give the two of them some privacy after a trying week.

Charlotte sighs. "I'm so glad you're back…"

Home.

This time, however, she doesn't add that part. She probably doesn't want to get into that again.

Good. Neither does he.

"So am I." He stretches an arm along the back of the sofa. "Come here."

"I don't want to bump your leg."

"Don't worry about it. My leg is fine." He pats the cushion right beside him. "I miss cuddling with you. That's not all I miss," he adds suggestively, "but the other part's going to have to wait."

She smiles and slides close to him, leaning her head against his chest.

For a moment, they just sit contentedly.

Royce senses that Charlotte's muscles are beginning to unclench for the first time all week. She feels more tightly wound than the antique clock on the mantel.

Its steady ticking is the only sound in the room, besides a soft chorus of crickets that drifts through the open window as dusk settles over the grounds.

"It's so quiet," Royce murmurs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 'That hospital was so noisy, all the time."

"It was pretty noisy around here, too, until the new unlisted phone number kicked in yesterday."

That's right, Royce remembers, she mentioned this morning that she was forced to abruptly terminate the old one, thanks to incessant calls from the press. The Remington scandal has enveloped the regional news for days now.

There was even a news van parked out beyond the stone gateway when they arrived here. Aimee-who has no use for the nosy press and is quite vocal about it-said it was worse the other day, when they returned from the hospital to find reporters broadcasting live from the lawn.

Charlotte had forgotten to close the gate when they'd left that morning-it isn't a habit anyone has been in for years. Of course, the news crew had no qualms about trespassing.

"I swear, they're like cockroaches-all they need to do is find a tiny crack in the foundation, and the next thing you know, whole armies are streaming in."

Royce had to laugh at that. She always did have a way with colorful metaphors.

Well, at least the main house isn't visible from the gate, which they have been careful to keep closed ever since. The brick plantation home is well screened by the long lane and all those Spanish moss-draped live oaks, safe from prying eyes-and cameras.

"Are you in any pain?" Charlotte asks, idly studying the label of an orange prescription bottle. "Because it says you can take this again in an hour."