Page 50 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Not a compassionate woman by nature, one who had an eye on making money, she’d chosen the law. Which was probably just as well. She would have made a horrid doctor.

“It’s your time,” Atropos whispered to the smiling Amanda in the picture. “Won’t the family be surprised? Or maybe, just maybe they’ll be relieved. You really are a bitch, you know.” She found the thread of life for Amanda Montgomery, already clipped and ready.

What Atropos had planned for Amanda was guaranteed to get the family’s attention. She started to pick up the pictures, but in her haste knocked two of them onto the floor. They fluttered and turned upright as they hit the tiles.

Two pictures. The first was of Caitlyn as a child. She was laughing, her head thrown back as she swung on the old rope that had hung from the sturdy limb of a live oak with branches that spread over the river. The second was of Berneda, the mother, her hands clasped over her heart in front of a birthday cake with seventy-five candles burning bright. Lucille stood just behind her, one step out of the spotlight, where she’d always been. Always tending, never tended.

Well, it was about time Lucille was released.

The mother would have to meet her own personal destiny. She found Berneda’s life braid . . . it was cut just perfectly.

As for Caitlyn?

Atropos found the red and black thread of her life and sighed.

For the moment, Caitlyn would be spared. But only for the moment.

And not for long. Atropos glanced at the picture again and at the frayed rope that the unsuspecting Caitlyn clung to as if for dear life. How fitting. Atropos fingered Caitlyn’s thread of life . . . it was only slightly longer than that of her mother.

The child in the snapshot seemed to smile at her.

Foolish, foolish little girl.

Thirteen

“Where were you on the night of your husband’s death?”

The question wasn’t unexpected and yet Caitlyn, absently ruffling Oscar’s fur, had been dreading it. Seated at her own kitchen table, with Officers Reed and Morrisette across from her, she said, “I thought I told you I was out,” she clarified, second-guessing herself. When Reed had called and asked to come by, she’d agreed. Now she wondered if she should have insisted she have an attorney present. “My sister and I were supposed to meet at a bar called The Swamp, down on the riverfront, but she got tied up and I was alone.”

“So you never went to your husband’s house that night?”

“It was my house once,” she said automatically and sensed both officers’ suspicion. And why not? Wasn’t it usually someone in the family who turned out to be the killer? “Look,” she said, standing. “I think I’d better call a lawyer.”

The woman with the spiky hair lifted a shoulder. “If you think you need one. We’re just asking a few questions.”

Caitlyn’s skin prickled with dread. “The truth of the matter, which I think I told you before, is that I’m kind of fuzzy about that night.”

“Why is that?”

She thought about explaining about the blackouts, about the loss of time she sometimes experienced, about the lapses in her memory, but it sounded like a lie. These cynical and jaded officers wouldn’t believe her. “Sometimes I drink too much,” she said.

“So you were so drunk that night that you can’t remember what you did?”

“I think I should call my attorney.” She pushed Oscar off her lap and stood. It was time to end this.

Reed scooted back his chair. “If you think you need one.”

“You tell me, Detective. You’re the ones asking the questions.”

“We’re just trying to find out what happened.” Reed offered what was supposed to pass as a smile, but there was no amusement in his eyes. None whatsoever.

“Fine. You can do it when I have a lawyer present,” she said and walked to the door. Oscar, toenails clicking, followed after.

“Mrs. Bandeaux, did you see your husband on the night of his death?” Detective Morrisette asked.

Did she? Could she tell them she wasn’t sure?

“A neighbor saw your car, or one like yours, in the driveway around midnight.”

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