Page 41 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“What the devil was that all about?” Troy asked, tugging at his tie.

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, for the record, I don’t like him. Probably got a personal agenda.”

“For the record, you don’t like anyone,” Caitlyn said and saw a shadow pass behind her brother’s eyes. “Okay, low blow. I’m sorry,” she amended. “This is just a rough day.”

“Aren’t they all?” he responded as the driver opened the door for her, and out of the corner of her eye Caitlyn watched Adam Hunt slide behind the wheel of the Jeep. “Who the hell is Rebecca Wade?”

“My shrink.”

“Oh.” Troy cast a glance at the Jeep as it drove off. “In that case, maybe you should talk to him, but check him out first. He could be a reporter with a cover story. Some of them aren’t all that trustworthy, you know. Would go to any lengths to get a scoop.”

“You really are paranoid.”

“Not me. Just realistic.” They scooted over the hot seat as the driver turned on the engine and cranked up the air conditioning. From the corner of her eye she saw her mother, Lucille, Amanda and Hannah climb into a second dark vehicle. They were on their way to Oak Hill.

“It runs in the family,” she said, joking morbidly.

“Very funny. But not through me. The rest of you, okay? Remember, I’m the sane one.”

She doubted it. But then she was beginning to doubt just about everything. The sane one? Oh, Troy, get over yourself.

As far as her family went, she’d be surprised if there was a sane one in the lot.

Atropos observed them all. The mourners of Josh Bandeaux. As if anyone really cared if he lived or died. She had watched the service, the dour expression of the preacher, the mother-in-law’s weary, unhappy expression behind her half veil, as if the funeral had been some kind of fashion show . . . and then there were the others, those illegitimate, greedy Biscaynes who’d made a public show of being a part of the Montgomery family.

Sugar. Cricket. Dickie Ray . . . their names said it all. One called something sweet when she was nothing more than a whore, the other’s nickname that of an insect that made a lot of noise and the third named for his claim to fame—the only one of the bastards who’d been blessed with a penis. And probably a minute one at that.

Atropos had seen their desperate expressions, their lust to be a part of the Montgomery family tree, to have a chance at a fortune they wouldn’t have to earn. It pleased her to know that they’d never get any of it; nor would the rest, the legitimate side of the family.

It wasn’t their fate, nor their destiny.

The strings of life had been woven and measured.

All that was left was for them to be cut at the appropriate time.

They would all have to be patient, but then they would feel the pain of Fate’s razor-sharp sheers . . . but the deaths would be appropriate, the suffering acute and specific. Because Atropos knew it wasn’t the deaths that were important. It was the dying.

Eleven

Sometimes those who appear the most innocent are the most evil.

How many times in his career had this proved true? Reed glanced in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of the black town cars that held members of the Montgomery family along with the Widow Bandeaux. He sensed that she knew more than she was saying about her husband’s death, and yet he couldn’t really figure her out. She was beautiful and sexy and at times appeared as shy as a frightened rabbit, while in other instances she’d proved herself aggressive and as tough as a wounded cat. One with very sharp claws.

His gut feeling was that he was missing something. Something important.

Driving away from the cemetery, he flipped down the cruiser’s visor. Traffic was light but the glare off the hood was harsh enough to make him squint behind his polarized lenses. He pushed the speed limit and cut through side streets, heading toward the center of town where the smell of the Savannah River crawled upward through the Cotton Exchange and Emmet Park to hang low over the city.

Caitlyn Bandeaux must’ve killed her husband, he rationalized, as he passed a horse-drawn carriage filled with tourists. The beasts, palomino draft horses in thick harnesses, plodded past historic sites while a tour guide pointed out the homes and businesses of the once-leading citizens of the city. Reed barely noticed. His thoughts were filled with Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux and her part in her estranged husband’s death. All of the evidence—no, make that most of the evidence—pointed straight at Mrs. Bandeaux. He couldn’t ignore it.

Motive. Her old man was going to divorce her for a younger woman, plus he was planning to file a wrongful death suit against her for the death of their child. Salt on an old wound. Another round of public humiliation.

Means. As frail as Caitlyn Bandeaux appeared at times, Reed was willing to bet she was smart and strong enough to drug Bandeaux and slit his wrists. Lipstick on the wineglass indicated that someone was present, presumably a woman. The matter of getting some GHB was easy—a street drug popular at rave parties.

Opportunity. Caitlyn had no alibi, nothing set in stone, at least nothing she’d offered up. They’d talked on the phone a couple of times, and she claimed her recollection of the night was “fuzzy.” Meaning she was either blotto out of her mind with alcohol or she was lying.

He’d bet on the latter.

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