Page 133 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Then, before the damned psychologist could argue, he led Sylvie and Montoya inside the dark house. It felt empty and smelled like death. But there was music playing, some eerie song. Reed got a bad feeling that only worsened as he stepped from one dark room to the other. They followed the sound, up the stairs and through and open door to a bedroom where two naked women had met their doom.

“Son of a bitch. Son of a fuckin’ bitch,” Morrisette blurted as she gazed at the bed, illuminated by the flickering light of a television. Covered in white powder that looked like sugar and another substance that Reed guessed was honey, the bodies were crawling with vermin.

“Bastard.” Montoya’s mouth tightened to a hard, unforgiving line, as if he’d seen it all already.

Sylvie Morrisette gagged, then swore a blue streak that would put her into hock for the rest of her life if she paid into the damned kitty bank as she recognized Sugar and Cricket Biscayne. “What kind of sick fuck would do this?” she asked. “Sugar—because of her name and crickets and . . . oh, God, let’s off the bastard.”

“First we have to find him or her,” Reed said, looking at the revolting display. “Call the crime scene team.” He glanced through the windows to the night. “Let’s go. We’re not done here. There might be more bodies.”

“Jesus,” Morrisette muttered.

Montoya added, “Or the killer.”

“Right. Now, let’s go. Somewhere around here maybe we’ll scare up Caitlyn Bandeaux.”

“If we’re not too late,” Morrisette whispered, making the sign of the cross over her chest for the first time that Reed could remember.

“She could have done this,” Reed reminded them soberly. Who the hell knew? Adam Hunt thought that Caitlyn was a split personality. That explained a lot of things, but Reed wasn’t convinced. It sounded like psycho-babble-mumbo-jumbo. For all he knew, she could be the killer.

Or the split could be.

Or the split could make a convenient alibi.

Until he found Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux, he’d keep his options open.

She was floating, neither alive nor dead, one minute Caitlyn, the next Kelly as she lay upon the desk in the white, bright room. Flourescent lights blazed and the tile floor was covered with a clear plastic tarp.

Caitlyn’s eyes were open, but she could barely move, only drooled, her head turned, her cheek lying on the cold desktop . . . the way Josh had been when he’d died. The room spun, but she saw her attacker—Atropos—in her blurred vision, working deftly, measuring cords only to cut them with a pair of long-handled stainless steel scissors that winked under the harsh lights. Atropos, my ass, Caitlyn thought. The murderer who seemed to be talking to herself was Amanda, Caitlyn’s sister and she was dressed in hospital scrubs, latex gloves and even slippers and a cap under which her hair had been tucked.

Caitlyn couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to. Amanda whom she had turned to for comfort and wisdom.

Was Amanda the one who had killed everyone so cruelly?

Amanda? But that was impossible. Amanda herself had been attacked. Yet not killed. The tree she hit in her sports car was the only one for a long stretch. She could have staged the accident to make it appear as if she was a victim. But that was crazy. Wasn’t it? Caitlyn’s head thundered but she couldn

’t lift it, couldn’t move. Could only wonder.

Amanda looked at her and for the first time Caitlyn realized that her older sister had been talking as she’d braided the red and black cords. “. . . so you see, Caitlyn . . . or is it Kelly? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. You were definitely Kelly when you came here.”

What? Kelly’s here? Where?

Amanda’s eyes narrowed pensively as she stared at Caitlyn. “You must be Caitlyn because you don’t seem to understand. You don’t even remember that Kelly is really dead and that you took on her personality after she disappeared.”

Caitlyn’s head was spinning; she couldn’t think straight. Amanda was making no sense, and yet, a very small, chilling part of her acknowledged some truth in her older sister’s words.

“That’s right, Caitie-Did, you’re a fruitcake. At least two people, God knows how many more, but part of the time you thought you were Kelly, you were damned convinced of it. Even lived out in that old cabin . . . Jesus, the one across the river and you had blackouts. You ended up with the Montgomery curse. Didn’t you know?”

You’re wrong, she wanted to say, you’re the one who’s cursed. You’re the one who’s mad. You’re the one with the split personality—sometimes Amanda, sometimes Atropos.

“Well, anyway, all those who were fated to die, all the pretenders to the Montgomery fortune were not merely killed, but their deaths were planned . . . plotted carefully . . . and fitting. By me. Atropos.”

As if Atropos were somehow separate from her. Two entities. One body.

“It started with Parker. I killed him. He was my first and it was . . .” Amanda’s quick-moving fingers hesitated a moment as she thought. “Well, it was almost by accident.”

Oh God, Amanda was confessing to killing Baby Parker. Caitlyn thought she would be sick. It was all so horrible. So bizarre.

“. . . Smothering him while no one was looking was easy,” Amanda said, her eyes narrowing at the memory. “And really, I did everyone a favor. He was always crying and colicky and . . . just such a pain in the butt. Such a noisy, rotten baby. I couldn’t believe Mother was still having children even after . . . Well, you know Cameron, dear old Dad, was screwing around on her. But he still had time to keep knocking up his wife as well, creating more little Montgomerys to fight over his money.”

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