The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,125

lips in anticipation and don’t let my mind wander to the aftermath of what I’m about to do. Whatever comes of it, whatever I have to face, I’ll deal with it.

Haven’t I always?

I glance down at the tracking screen again and I nearly stand on the brakes as I see I’ve nearly lost her, the blinking dot that represents her car on the screen has turned off the main road. She’s not headed to the Beaumont estate? To the scene of the crime? To the tomb in the basement of that decrepit old manor?

I recalculate, thinking there must be something wrong with the tracking device, but I follow anyway, turning abruptly into a lane and spraying gravel, winning the exasperated honk of the van that had been following me. The beams of its headlights catch in the rearview, and for a split second I see my reflection, a fake image because of the colored contacts I wear, the hair dye that casts my hair in a darker hue, the makeup that always covers my freckles and covers the tiny scar near my temple. I probably never needed to take all the precautions. Probably no one would have ever recognized me, but I needed to be certain. I need the anonymity so that I can fulfill my destiny. I can seek retribution.

Me.

For myself.

For the others.

For justice.

And to wash away the guilt I’ve borne for so long.

In a second, I’m back on the road again, flying over the bridge.

To Settler’s Road.

Why here?

I leave the question in my dust and turn onto the narrow country lane and conjure up Nikki Gillette, that nosy reporter’s face again, and I speak to her.

“It doesn’t matter where you’re going. It doesn’t matter where you’re hiding. I’ll find you. I’ll track you down like a damned bloodhound and I’ll run you to the ground. You won’t get away from me.” The words calm me and I feel the anticipation coursing through my veins.

Soon, there will be a reckoning.

After all this time, all the years and all the pain, it’s about to go down.

My fingers tighten over the steering wheel.

I can’t wait!

CHAPTER 31

Streetlights were glowing, the evening warm, a few pedestrians out for evening strolls as Reed turned into his drive, parked and cut the engine of the department-issued vehicle in front of his garage door. He was tired, his muscles weary, even if his mind was still in overdrive.

It had been a long day and was going to be an even longer night. Though he hadn’t admitted as much to Margaret Le Roy earlier, he believed that her son’s suicide had been staged. If so, Owen Duval had been murdered.

According to statements from the neighbors, they had heard the gunshot and, like so many others Reed had interviewed over the years, Conrad Bell had thought the noise was a firecracker or a car backfiring. He’d been watching TV, had heard the shot, gotten up and looked out his window and seen nothing, heard nothing more.

Too bad. Reed was convinced that Duval had been helped along in his death. But by whom? And why?

Reed rubbed the back of his neck.

Owen’s homicide was linked to the discovery of his sisters’ remains. Reed was sure of it; he just couldn’t prove it yet.

But it wasn’t a coincidence that Owen had been killed—silenced?—after the bodies had been located and identified.

There had been no sign of forced entry at Owen’s apartment, but Mrs. Davis had admitted to having a spare key “hidden” on the back porch, which made it possible that anyone who had been watching or had some knowledge of the key could have snagged it, let himself in and helped Owen along on his journey to death. There was no doubt that Owen had been drinking, and probably taking a few pills, possibly to bolster his confidence as he may well have been suicidal. Toxicology tests would prove if any drugs had been in his system. As to his mental state? That was something that would be tough to prove. So far no one had indicated that he was depressed enough to have taken his own life.

Reed climbed out of the car.

Margaret Le Roy was right. All of her children with the worrisome exception of Rose were now dead, all victims of homicide. And who knew about the youngest? Whatever Owen Duval had known about Rose’s whereabouts had died with him.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, walking up a short path to the back door, hearing excited barks emanating from