Page 53 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Has anyone filed a missing persons report?”

“No one even knows if she’s missing.”

“What about relatives?”

“The neighbor said she was single, but divorced, she thought, and that she might have an aunt in Kansas or Wisconsin or somewhere in the Midwest.” Morrisette shot through a yellow light. “I’m looking into it. Apparently the lady shrink is a very private person. I have a theory about ’em, you know.”

“About who?”

“Shrinks. I think they’re all in the business because they need mental help themselves.”

Reed grinned. “You think?”

“Absolutely.” She reached for her pack of cigarettes. “And the management company checked their records, said Ms. Wade had left town once before, just took off for a few months, but that time she paid her rent in advance.”

“You think this has something to do with Josh Bandeaux’s death?” Reed asked, the wheels turning in his mind. It was an odd link. With Caitlyn Bandeaux as the cornerstone. But stranger things had occurred.

“Probably not.” She punched in the lighter. “You asked what happened to her and I told you. I did manage to get Rebecca Wade’s Social Security number from the management company, so that should speed things up. Already put it into the database.”

“Good. Let’s go down to The Swamp. See if anyone remembers her.”

“Your wish is my command,” Morrisette mocked as she sped toward the waterfront.

“Just as it should be.”

Caitlyn felt a sharp chill. Suddenly cold to the bone, though summer heat was blistering the sidewalks of Savannah. Maybe it was because the police had stopped by earlier or maybe it was because she’d gotten another call from Nikki Gillette at the Sentinel, but whatever the reason, she was suddenly ice-cold. Amanda had suggested that she rest, and though it wasn’t yet dark, was closer to dinnertime, she avoided her bedroom and stretched out on the couch. She pulled her afghan over her shoulders and imagined she could still smell the hint of Nana’s perfume in the complicated stitches. Nana Evelyn, who had painstakingly knitted and purled, keeping her stitches even, concentrating on the pattern, sitting in front of a television that blared everything from Lawrence Welk to the evening news, making sure her mind wouldn’t wander to forbidden territory.

Knit a row, purl two rows, or was it the other way around? Nana had tried to teach Kelly and Caitlyn the art of knitting and they’d both failed miserably. The last time had been at Christmas in the lodge.... Caitlyn shivered, drew the knitted blanket up closer to her neck. She’d been little. Five . . . Or was it six . . . and snow had covered the ground. She’d played outside all day, her snowsuit and mittens discarded and drying near the fire. But it was nighttime and she was supposed to sleep in the room with Nana. Cold Nana. Knitting Nana. Weird Nana.

“I don’t want to sleep there,” she’d told her mother.

“That’s nonsense. You and Kelly always sleep with Nana when we come up here.”

“Not tonight,” she’d whispered, for Nana had been quiet all day long, knitting, her needles clicking, her eyes following Caitlyn as she’d played outside and then later when she’d warmed her hands by the fire.

“Don’t be silly.” Berneda had dismissed her, and both she and Kelly were tucked into the bunk beds in the large room. Nana had her own bed, a bigger bed with curtains around it and she’d peek through the folds of dark cloth while she was awake, or snore loudly as she slept.

But that night, she left the drapes open and lay propped up on the pillows. Oh, she’d pretended to be asleep, but Caitlyn knew she wasn’t, caught a glimpse of a slit of eyeball beneath her lowered lids. She didn’t snore, didn’t say a word, and as the fire died and the night grew dark, Caitlyn stayed awake as long as she could, but eventually sleep overtook her and she’d drifted off.

That was all she remembered until she felt a hand upon her shoulder, an arm around her waist. Drowsy, she opened an eye as Nana picked her up. She’d started to say something, but Nana pressed a bony finger to her lips. “Don’t wake Kelly,” she’d whispered, but Caitlyn looked over at Kelly’s mussed bed. A bit of moonlight filtered through the windows, and Caitlyn saw that Kelly’s bed was empty.

“Where is—?”

“Shh! Didn’t I say to be quiet? That’s a good girl, Caitlyn,” Nana whispered, carrying her to her bed. “Nana’s cold.” She bustled Caitlyn into the bed with her and drew the curtains tight so that it was dark.

Caitlyn whimpered.

“Oh, don’t make a sound, honey. Don’t you know you’re Nana’s favorite?” An icy hand smoothed Caitlyn’s hair off her face. Colder lips brushed a kiss on her forehead. “That’s it, snuggle closer. You’ll warm old Nana up . . .”

Now, nearly thirty years later, she shuddered and threw Nana’s blanket off.

Hateful old woman with her cold eyes and cold hands and cold, dark secrets.

“Yeah, that’s the woman who was here,” the bartender said to Reed and Morrisette as he studied the black-and-white photograph of Caitlyn Bandeaux. A burly man in a polo shirt and slacks, the bartender wore a single earring and a graying ponytail that didn’t make up for the fact that male-pattern baldness was definitely setting in.

The afternoon was young. Happy Hour was still fifteen minutes away, and The Swamp was nearly empty aside from the stuffed alligators, egrets, fake frogs and catfish that were suspended from the ceiling. An overturned canoe and paddles were mounted over the bar. Fishing reels and life preservers gathered dust on the walls. In one corner music stands, amps, cords, mikes and stools were stashed behind a drum set.

Two regulars were nursing beers at stools near a couple of pinball machines, and a kid who didn’t look twenty-one was busy sweeping near the hallway that led to the rest rooms and a back exit.

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