Free The Final Victim by Wendy Corsi Staub

or about the weighty secret she’s determined to carry to the grave.
    If he ever found out . . .
    â€œCookie, Mommy!”
    â€œOkay, okay, Cam.”
    Hurrying to the cupboard for the package of store-brand chocolate-sandwich cookies, she forces away the terrible, haunting memories that are never far from flooding her thoughts.
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    Charlotte helps herself to the heaping platter of hush puppies the waitress has already set before them. She breaks open a plump, warm puff and slathers it with honey-sweetened butter.
    Her husband smiles across the table at her. “I knew you had to be hungry.”
    â€œA little.”
    â€œPromise to eat while I’m gone?”
    â€œI’ll try.”
    â€œI’ll be back before you know it,” he says again. “It’s only for the weekend. I got that first flight out on Delta Monday morning.”
    â€œI know. I just wish you had invited Aimee here instead. Or that I could be going with you. I’d love to meet her.”
    The smile fades from Royce’s eyes. “I wish the same thing. But Aimee says she isn’t ready to meet you yet. I’m lucky she even wants me.”
    Charlotte nods. She supposes she can’t blame the young woman for resenting not just the father she blames for a multitude of sins, both real and imagined by her bitter mother, but also the new wife and family in Royce’s life.
    â€œWell, sooner or later, I’ll come with you and we’ll get to meet. Not just Aimee, but your mom, too.”
    Her mother-in-law is in a New Orleans nursing home, too frail to travel. Royce usually makes an effort to see her when he goes back. Charlotte has never met her, and isn’t in any hurry to, given Royce’s tales of her mounting senility, near-deafness, and constant ill-temper.
    â€œWe’ll make the trip,” he promises. “Maybe for Mardis Gras. That’s a good time to go.”
    â€œWell, be sure to tell Aimee she’s welcome to visit any time,” Charlotte reminds him, reverting automatically to her inherent Southern hospitality. “Especially once we’re back home.” Oh, to be back home. “And I hope she likes the brooch and earrings.”
    â€œShe’ll love them. Thank you for picking them out.”
    â€œIt was fun. You know how much I love to shop.”
    â€œAnd you know how much I love you for being open-minded about my daughter.” Royce picks up her hand and kisses away the crumbs that cling to her buttery fingers.
    â€œI love you for the same reason, especially now that mine is such an insufferable little wench,” Charlotte tells him with a grin.
    â€œOh, I remember Aimee at that age, before the divorce. Lianna will come through this stage just fine. Next thing you know, she’ll be a gracious young lady fit for the Remington family portrait.”
    â€œSomehow I find that hard to believe.”
    â€œTrust me.”
    â€œI do.”
    And now that Grandaddy is gone, Royce is the only person left in Charlotte’s world whom she does trust.
    Certainly nobody else deserves it: not the daughter who lied just last week about where she was going and with whom; not the family members who might as well be strangers now in their midst; not the general contractor who repeatedly assured them they’d be back home in Savannah by February, then May, and now August.
    Suddenly, Charlotte feels utterly consumed by exhaustion. She leans back in her seat, pressing a hand against her lips to mask a yawn.
    â€œYou’re tired.”
    â€œI am. I feel like I want to crawl into bed and sleep for days,” she tells Royce wearily.
    â€œWell, then, go ahead and do just that when we get home.”
    â€œI wish.”
    â€œWhat’s stopping you? You need to recover from all this. You should rest. Take some time for yourself.”
    She shakes her head, thinking again of Lianna, of the visiting cousins.
    Both Gib and Phyllida are quite a