The Final Victim(84)

She descends directly along the center in swift, feather-footed silence, gracefully balanced without needing to grasp the rail. All those ballet lessons she took as a girl come in handy when it comes to sneaking through a sleeping house.

It's near dawn here, but only past one on the West Coast. Brian will be up watching Conan or Baseball Tonight or whatever it is he stays up late to watch. She wouldn't know. Wouldn't care, either.

What matters is that she doesn't have to wait until noon tomorrow to call and tell him about the decision she's made.

In the kitchen, she pauses, clutching her cell phone and the flashlight she retrieved from the utility drawer. Then she peeks through the window and realizes that a steady rain is falling.

Okay, so she won't make the call from outside.

But she can't do it right here in the kitchen. Who knows what time Nydia begins to stir, considering the ungodly hour she goes to bed, and the even more ungodly hour she's been serving breakfast all these years.

Nor should she go back to her room; the dividing wall between her room and Lianna's is one of the few that isn't made of plaster, and the last thing she wants is to be overheard.

No, she's better off going to the far parlor, where she'll be ensured of a private conversation behind closed doors.

It's not one she's looking forward to, but now that she knows what she has to do, she owes it to Brian to tell him right away. Doesn't she?

It wouldn't be fair to wait until she gets back tomorrow night No, her flight gets in late, and by the time she gets home from the airport and looks in on Wills…

Face it, Phyllida. You want to break it to him over the phone right now so you won't have to wait and do it in person. That way, you won't have to see his face when you tell him.

All right, that's true.

But what's wrong with that? This is easier, on both of them. She'll just deliver the news gently.

Yeah, sure.

How do you gently drop a bombshell on your husband that you're planning to leave him, sell the house and cars and every material possession you own, and then take your young son and move to the opposite end of the country?

I have to do it. That's all there is to it, she assures herself yet again.

It's the only possible solution to her predicament.

This way, she can leave behind the mess in California, abandoning once and for all her dreams that weren't meant to come true. She'll start a new life in Rhode Island; her mother can help her with Wills while she goes to school, or gets a job, or does whatever it takes to get back on her feet.

As she tossed and turned in her bed, thinking things through, she briefly entertained the thought of asking Brian to come back East with them. But there's no way he'd agree to that. He's a native Californian; he hates the very notion of cold winters as much as he hates summer humidity. Not to mention the fact that he also hates her mother.

He's bound to make a fuss when she first tells him her plan, but she has a feeling he'll get over it pretty quickly in the end. He'll come to realize what she already has: that he'll be free to golf whenever he wants, and lounge around watching television, and spend his money on expensive clothes and toys. He'll see that she and Wills will be better off without him-and that he'll be happier without the burden of a wife and child.

Eager to make her call now that her mind is made up, Phyllida leaves the kitchen.

Back in the shadowy hall, she realizes she's still clutching the flashlight. Rather than putting it back, she flicks it on and uses its beam to guide her through rooms that open onto each other from the center hall. That way, she won't have to leave a trail of lamplight that Nydia might follow if she awakens.

The floor plan is fairly familiar; the cluttered furniture layout, not as much. She moves slowly, taking stealth care to shine the light on every table and chair in her path. Outside, she can hear the patter of raindrops and the rushing sound as it pours from the downspouts along the portico. A cool gust stirs the lace curtains at the open windows in the first parlor as she moves past.

It's a good night for sleeping. Maybe, after she's made her call, she'll actually be able to do just that.

Yawning, Phyllida reaches the closed French doors to the second parlor.

She opens one and slips noiselessly into the room.

There, Phyllida Remington Harper is jolted, in one stunning, fleeting, yet unmistakable glimpse, by the biggest shock of her life.

PART IV

THE FOURTH VICTIM

CHAPTER 14
Sunday morning, the sun rises brightly on a world scrubbed clean in yesterday's downpour. Charlotte is glad she decided to set the alarm for an early hour. It's a beautiful day to get up and moving.

If she could just seem to get moving, that is.

Rather than refreshing her and scrubbing the exhaustion from her soul, a shower seems to leave her only more tempted to crawl back into bed. Of course, if she had made it bracing and quick-rather than long, languid, and hot-she might be more capable of springing into action.

She yawns repeatedly as she dresses, putting on a conservative navy dress with white piping, a matching broad-brimmed hat, and spectator pumps with a coordinating handbag. Around her neck, she fastens a simple gold-cross necklace her Grandaddy gave her for her sixteenth birthday.

It's time she went back to the little white Baptist church overlooking the sea, across the highway from Tidewater Meadow. She used to go every Sunday with Grandaddy-and sometimes Royce, and Lianna when she was forced-but Charlotte hasn't been there at all in the weeks since he passed away.