The Final Victim(81)

"No, I'm fine." He watches her set the bottle back on the table beside the couch, aligning it with the other medication they brought home. "Charlotte, maybe you should put those away somewhere."

"Oh, no you don't, Mister," she says lightly. "No way are you going to start in again about how you're just fine, and you don't need anything for the pain. There's no reason for you to suffer. You're taking these, Royce, until the doctor tells you to stop."

"No, that's not what I meant." He hesitates, trying to phrase it correctly. "I just don't know if y'all should leave them out here where anyone can… you know… find them. Some of those are narcotics."

"What are you getting at, Royce? You don't think that Nydia or Phyllida-"

"No," he cuts in, "I don't."

She stares at him.

He gives a slight nod.

"Royce, she might have lied and snuck out to see an older boy, but you're talking about drugs, here. I really don't think-"

"You said you didn't trust her after what happened. I don't, either. And why leave the slightest bit of temptation in her path?"

Charlotte sits in moody silence, staring into space.

"I'm sorry," Royce tells her after a minute. "You're right. There's no reason to think Lianna might help herself to my medication. That's ridiculous."

"It is ridiculous."

"I guess after seeing how they kept the narcotics in the hospital under such tight control, I couldn't help but think anybody could just stumble across these and help themselves."

"Lianna would never do that. I know she's done some awful things, and I don't trust her as far as I can throw her when it comes to boys, but I know my daughter. She wouldn't touch drugs."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You were right to consider it. But you don't have to worry about it, or anything at all, for that matter. Why don't you just rest now?"

Charlotte strokes his cheek gently, sounding, and looking, just as exhausted as he feels. Her face is drawn; her lovely violet eyes underscored with dark crescents.

"I'm afraid I'm going to fall asleep," he tells her, allowing his own eyelids to droop, just for a moment.

"Go ahead. You need it."

He shakes his head, forcing his eyes open. "Not yet. I haven't been alone with you in a week; I'm not going to waste this opportunity by being unconscious."

She smiles. "How about if I put on some music?" "That sounds good," he says around a yawn, fighting sleep. "I'll just close my eyes for a few seconds while you…"

Hearing Melanie climbing the stairs, humming to herself, Jeanne quickly slides the bureau drawer closed. No need to have the nurse catch her checking and rechecking her possessions. When the police made it up here, they gave her room only a cursory once-over. They never thought to search beneath the woolen shawl spread over an old lady's lap on a sweltering afternoon.

By the time Melanie reenters the room bearing an aromatic tray of food, Jeanne's wheelchair has been turned and she's once again facing the window, wearing an absent expression.

"I heated up your dinner, Jeanne," Melanie announces in her buoyant way. "I even put it on a regular plate for you for a change, and I brought real silverware, too."

Yes, she did. And the meal looks even skimpier on the good china than it would have in the compartments of a cardboard tray.

"Look what we have tonight, Jeanne! Turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes, asparagus. Doesn't that sound good?"

It sounds good, Jeanne thinks morosely, but it won't be.

Melanie chats about the weather as Jeanne inspects her tray.

"Big storm brewing," she says in the same manner in which she'd inform a small child that a carnival is coming to town. "It's called Douglas. Everybody's been talking about it on TV. They're saying it could turn into a hurricane. But don't worry, Jeanne, I'll make sure you're safe. And it's not for a few more days, anyway. Tomorrow we're just going to get some plain-old summer rain."

Jeanne nods. The turkey appears to be reheated sliced cold cuts doused with canned gravy, the potatoes are instant, and the asparagus has been reduced to green slime she could eat with a spoon… if she had one.

She usually gets a set of three white plastic utensils shrink-wrapped with a paper napkin and salt and pepper packets.

Not tonight.

For whatever reason, Melanie has decided to go all fancy on her. Jeanne suppresses the urge to ask her where she found the fancy table service. Did she take it upon herself to go through the cupboards?

It's been years since Jeanne has laid eyes on this white china with the gold rims. It belonged to her own mother first, and then to Eleanore.

She gazes down at the plate, eyes blurred with a flood of renewed disillusionment that it was Gilbert's wife, and not Jeanne, who inherited Mother's china.

It wasn't Eleanore's fault, of course. Nor was it her husband's. No, it was Father who decided that the china, and everything else that had ever belonged to Mother, would be given to his son and daughter-in-law.

Without his father's knowledge, Gilbert allowed Jeanne to take a few of their mother's possessions that had only sentimental value. The handkerchiefs and shawl that bore Mother's meticulous stitchery. The photograph album. The hair ribbon.