Page 40 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

If not for the fact that she’d climbed the stairs to the attic and the room that reeked of cigarette smoke, liquor and musk to slip out the window and shimmy down the oak tree, they would have been locked inside.

As it was, she’d escaped, but had never forgotten that night and her father’s betrayal. She’d been only eleven at the time, but the memory was still as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.

Caitlyn had no idea how long Copper and her father had been lovers, but certainly long enough that there could have been a child or two conceived.

A dyed-in-the-wool bastard, just like his father.

Caitlyn didn’t even cringe at her emotions for Cameron. She’d come to terms long ago with the fact that she’d hated him when he was living and she could bloody well hate him now that he was dead. She didn’t blame the Biscaynes for wanting their share of his estate. By blood they deserved it.

“Jesus, they’re nervy,” Amanda whispered as she followed Caitlyn’s gaze. “Know who the man with them is? Their attorney. Hails from New Orleans, and he’s as shady as one of these old oaks,” she said, rolling her eyes to the branches overhead.

Caitlyn didn’t respond but as Sugar glanced in her direction, she tore her eyes away and tried to concentrate on the preacher’s last words. She stood at the grave site with Troy on one side, Amanda the other. Her mother and Lucille sat on chairs set up on a fake grass carpet and surrounded by floral sprays beginning to droop in the heat. Hannah, hiding behind dark glasses and a dour expression, was positioned on the far side of Troy and stared dully at the ground.

Whereas Caitlyn, Amanda and Kelly took after their mother with thin, willowy builds, deep mahogany-colored hair and hazel, near-green eyes, Hannah and Troy looked more like their father. Their features were larger, their hair darker, almost black, their eyes a sharp, intense blue. As her older brother, Charles’s had been. He, as had been often stated, had been the spitting image of their father. Tall and good-looking, a natural athlete and competitor, Charles had been groomed to step into Cameron’s expensive shoes.

Until he’d died.

One of the many tragedies that scarred the thick, twisted branches of the Montgomery family tree. Caitlyn had only to shift her eyes a little distance away and see the tomb for her family members. In earlier times the Montgomerys had been buried in the ancient cemetery near the old plantation house at Oak Hill. Generation after generation. But in recent times, the family had taken their final resting plots here in the city. The first to have been buried here was Benedict and later his wife. Charles rested here and Baby Parker, who had died of SIDS, at least according to Doc Fellers, before his first birthday.

“Amen,” the crowd whispered as the final prayer was finished. The preacher raised his head. He motioned at Caitlyn. She stepped forward, her legs wobbly, as she dropped a single white rose onto J

osh’s coffin. It was still impossible to believe—really believe—that he was dead. If nothing else, Josh had always been a vibrant man, so full of life.

She’d spent the past few days making funeral arrangements, speaking briefly to the police, avoiding the press and trying to sort out what had happened. She hadn’t been able to sleep in her own bedroom—the thought of the blood spilled everywhere had been too unnerving—so she’d spent the last two nights tucked under a coverlet on the sofa, unable to fall asleep without the aid of some kind of tranquilizer Doc Fellers had offered up.

“I know you hate to take pills,” Berneda had said, pressing the tinted bottle into her palm, “but these will help. I had an appointment anyway and asked if he’d prescribe something for you.”

“Don’t you think you should have asked me?” Caitlyn had replied, but had accepted the little dark bottle anyway. The lorazepam had come in handy, helping her calm down, getting her through the days as well as the nights.

She still hadn’t talked to Kelly; they just kept missing each other, but Kelly had promised to call once the funeral was over, once the press was looking elsewhere for a story, once the gossips found other fodder for their grisly mill. “You know I can’t come to the funeral,” she’d said. “I’m not that much of a hypocrite, and Mom would freak, absolutely freak, so I’m not gonna make any waves. Not right now. We’ll get together once Josh is in the ground. Hang in there . . .”

Caitlyn was trying. But having a helluva time. Her work was neglected, piling up, clients leaving messages of condolence mixed with inquiries as to when their particular projects would be finished. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow she’d have to start returning calls and somehow begin living her life again.

If the police would let her.

If her conscience would permit it.

“Come on,” Troy said, shepherding her toward the waiting town car parked in the shade of one of the trees. The solemn driver, a heavyset man employed by the funeral home, waited, his hips resting against a front fender. Caitlyn had focused upon him and didn’t notice a stranger approach until a shadow fell in front of her feet.

“Mrs. Bandeaux? My condolences.”

She braced herself. Expected a reporter to have crashed the funeral, thought a microphone would be thrust in front of her face as a camera clicked off quick shots for the local paper.

“Not now,” Troy uttered.

“I know it’s a difficult time, and I only stopped by because I’m a colleague of Rebecca Wade.” The voice was male. Deep. The man behind it, tall and serious. Khaki pants, loose blue sweater, dark hair longer than the current rage, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw.

Troy turned to face the intruder. “I don’t care who you are. This is a very private time. If you’ll excuse us—”

“No. Wait.” Caitlyn paused in a patch of shade. She squinted up at him through dark glasses. “You know Dr. Wade?”

“Went to school with her, then worked with her for years. I’m Adam Hunt.” He extended his hand. “She asked me to check with some of her patients while she’s away.”

“You’ve spoken with her?”

“Not recently. But I was detained a bit.” He glanced down, and for the first time she noticed that his ankle appeared to be taped. “Got into a tangle with a motorcycle. I lost.” He flashed a wide smile that warmed the cool gray of his eyes. “I shouldn’t have come here today, but you haven’t returned any of my calls and Rebecca asked me specifically to contact you. I’m . . . I’m sorry for the delay. I know that this is a particularly difficult time for you, so if you want to talk to anyone, just call me.” He pressed a business card into her hand. “I won’t keep you. Again, my condolences.”

Before she could respond, he hobbled off down a slight slope to a spot where an older-model Jeep was parked.

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