The Final Victim Read Online Free PDF Page B

Remington family. It was constructed in typical antebellum style: symmetrical facade fronted by grand white pillars and a wide portico; hipped roof punctuated third-floor dormers; distinctive raised basement wall constructed of tabby, a regional mixture of oyster shell sand, lime, and water.
         Oakgate didn't become Charlotte's official residence until the summer after she graduated from Duke, when she settled here rather than return home to live Savannah with her recently widowed mother.
        Daddy had been the bond that held the two of the together; without him, she felt out of place at home She was closer to her grandfather than to her mother, and it seemed logical that she live at Oakgate with him.
        It wasn't natural, on the heels of free-and-easy dormitory life, to settle into an old man's household with an old man's unbending rules and rituals. But somehow, they made it work. Charlotte eventually found herself looking forward to the rigid daily schedule of domestic events at Oakgate , in such stark contrast to her parents' chaotic nonroutines .
        Every morning at precisely seven o'clock, Nydia served the same breakfast: grits, poached eggs, and slabs of thick country bacon that in the end probably contributed to Grandaddy's demise. The timing and menu didn't vary with the day of the week or the season; nor did it vary with the personal whims of the cook or diner.
        It was grits, poached eggs, and bacon at seven. Always.
         Grandaddy napped every afternoon after lunch, snoring peacefully in his recliner. A lifelong insomniac, he claimed it was the only place he could ever fall asleep-and stay asleep-without the prescription medication he often resorted to in the wee hours.
        Every night, after supper and his bath, Grandaddy watched the NBC Nightly News at six thirty. Then, without fail, he would turn off the television and turn on the radio, the one on the mantel. It was always tuned to the same Oldies station, which ironically played swing music that was probably newer than the radio itself. Tommy Dorsey, Jimmy Dorsey, Count Basie…
        That first Christmas she lived with him, Charlotte got her grandfather a brand new stereo system.
        It still sits, unused from that day, in a cabinet in the far corner of the living room, along with the stack of golden oldies CD's she bought him to go with it. She has long since gotten over the hurt, having come to understand that Gilbert Remington was a creature of habit. He wanted to hear his old music on his old radio.
        She stayed for almost two years, moving out only when she married Vincent.
        But the Savannah condo and later the two-story, center-hall Colonial that she shared with her first husband never entirely felt like home. Not even when Adam was alive. Selling the house and returning to Oakgate after the divorce hadn't been a difficult decision, though Lianna had complained. But soon even she grew comfortable here.
        It was Charlotte who couldn't quite settle in.
        That had nothing to do with Grandaddy or the house. She was still mourning her losses. Initially, she thought being at Oakgate would make her feel closer to her little boy, buried in the family graveyard behind the house.
        Instead, it was a constant reminder of all that she had lost; of what will never be.
        She had already decided to buy a house of her own hack in Savannah before that fateful Labor Day weekend three years ago.
        It was shortly afterward that she met Royce, under the most horrific of circumstances.
        The first time he showed up at the bereaved parent group she used to attend, she instantly recognized him from the beach.
        She watched him running that day, screaming for his son. She saw him hurtling himself helplessly into the water, screaming for Theo, until the lifeguards dragged him out.
         Lianna witnessed it as well.
        As far as Charlotte knows, her daughter