The Final Victim(87)

Gib.

Even now, after all these days, she still can't quite grasp the enormity of what he did. Every morning, the shocking truth settles over her anew, like an ill-fitting uniform you can't wait to strip off when the day is done.

She supposes she'll get used to the idea that the enemy was lurking under this very roof-behind the mask of a loved one, no less.

Crossing the threshold into the parlor, she finds the heavy amber-silk draperies still pulled across the lace curtains, to block out the morning light.

When her eyes have grown accustomed to the dim interior, she glances toward the hospital bed on the far side of the room, in a nook beside the window. Royce is there, his mouth thrown open, obviously in a deep sleep.

After crossing the carpet on tiptoe, Charlotte realizes she'll need to tuck her car keys into her purse to free her hands for carrying the radio.

Unfortunately, she misses the zippered pocket, and the keys plummet to the floor. Of all the luck, en route, they strike one of the antique brass andirons with a deafening jangle.

Gasping in dismay, Charlotte swivels her head to look at Royce.

He doesn't even appear to have moved a muscle.

Panic overtakes her as she remembers the sight of Grandaddy's corpse, looking as though he had fallen sound asleep in the tub. In fact, she had almost convinced herself that Nydia was hysterical over nothing, jumping to conclusions…

Until she touched his skin and found it as cold as the bathwater and hard as the porcelain tub.

Heart pounding in dread, she walks over to Royce.

No, she thinks. This can't be happening.

I can't lose him now, after everything.

Slowly, she reaches for his hand, exposed on top of the sheet.

Thank God, she thinks as her fingers graze her husband's unmistakably warm flesh.

He doesn't even flinch as she gives him one last, firm stroke, just to be sure.

Aimee was right, she thinks, amused as she goes back to retrieve the keys. That painkiller he's on is good stuff. A freight train could roar through here, and it probably wouldn't even wake him.

On her key ring, the plastic frame that holds the Grand Canyon photo of herself and Royce has cracked.

Taken aback, Charlotte sees that a jagged line now appears to divide it in half, right between their smiling faces, almost as if it's a harbinger to…

No. Don't be ridiculous. Nothing is going to happen to Royce.

Anyway, the whole picture is an illusion in the first place: artificial backdrop, smiles, and all. They'd had a rare argument shortly before it was taken. Over what, she can no longer remember. It doesn't matter.

She gives her sleeping husband one last, grateful glance. He's going to be fine. Really.

"I won't be gone long," she whispers. "I love you."

Now she just needs to grab the radio, dash back to the kitchen for the recipe card, which she forgot on the counter, and be on her way.

There's just one problem.

The spot in the center of the mantel…

The spot where the radio sat for decades in its place of honor…

Is now conspicuously empty.

After a quick, fruitless search of the room-indeed, the entire first floor-Charlotte, dumbfounded, concludes that her Grandaddy's radio seems to have somehow vanished altogether.

With little to do each day but observe his own droughts, Gib has grown to loathe Detective Williamson.

Dorado is tolerable-you get the feeling that he's at least human, that you might actually like him under regular circumstances. His partner, however, is thoroughly abrasive in every possible way.

Thus, when Gib is summoned to face him in a windowless room no different, really, than a jail cell, it's all he can do not to-

What? Spit in his face? Give him the finger?

Yeah, that'll go over big. Especially with Tyler here. Gib can't help but notice that the lawyer seems to be growing less benevolent with every passing day.

In fact, this morning, Tyler sits, arms folded, as though he's waiting impatiently for the detectives to begin… or end, so he can get on with his day.

He also refuses to meet Gib's eyes.

That isn't a good sign.

Gib assumes they're all here for another attempt at plea bargaining. If so, they're wasting their time.

"We have a few more questions for you, Remington," Dorado informs him, and something in his tone warns Gib the case has taken a turn. For better or worse, he isn't certain. But he senses that there's been a new development.

His brain is immediately fraught with possibilities-and fear. Still, he's careful to maintain an utterly blank facade, lest the circling predators sniff blood in the water. Gib knows now, from experience, that they will feed off the slightest hint of vulnerability.

What the hell is going on?

Did they do another search of his belongings?

Did they look more closely at the items in his Dopp bag?

Could they possibly have found the contents of the receptacles disguised as a shaving cream can and hair product?

No! Of course not. If they didn't find it the first time, they aren't going to keep going over and over the same evidence, Gib reminds himself.

Still, it takes every bit of his concentration to keep from betraying his foreboding as Williamson says, "We're not going to beat around the bush with you, Remington."

Gib shrugs, even as a shrill voice in his head shrieks, They 've found it. They know everything. You 're fried.