Читать книгу Bayou Hero - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 11
ОглавлениеAs a sardonic smile slowly tilted the corner of Jeremiah III’s mouth, it popped into Alia’s mind that, unlike his sister, he had no manners. The air of quiet about him was almost predatory. He didn’t look the son of Louisiana privilege. His shorts were khaki, faded and worn, and his Hawaiian shirt, though subdued, was still a Hawaiian shirt. It was difficult to tell if his unruly dark brown hair needed a trim or was expensively cut to look that way, but there was no missing the quality of his running shoes, the aged patina of his wristwatch or the distrust and keep your distance shimmering the air around him.
It was hard to believe the uncomfortable boy in the Jackson family portrait had grown into this confident man. But weren’t her own middle school pictures proof that a person didn’t stay gawky, clumsy and a misfit forever?
“Mr. Jackson—”
“Landry.”
Her jaw tightened before she could stop it. “You were at your father’s house. Why didn’t you identify yourself?”
“To who?”
“The officer at the gate?”
“Why?”
“Surely you knew we would want to talk to you.”
With easy, lithe movements the failed ballerina in her envied, he pushed away from the wall and moved to stand directly behind Mary Ellen. He rested one hand on the back of her chair, the other on her shoulder, and she reached up to cling to it. “I have nothing to tell you.”
Alia ignored his flat statement. “When was the last time you saw your father?”
“A long time ago.”
“How long? A year? Two? Ten?”
Landry and Mary Ellen exchanged looks. “Twelve years.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“It was my wedding,” Mary Ellen supplied in a helpful tone. She struck Alia as the peacemaker, the giver, the one who wanted things to go smoothly for everyone else. Such a task could be exhausting work, especially with a father accustomed to command and a brother on the outs with him.
“No family Christmases since then?” Jimmy asked. “Funerals, christenings, anniversaries, birthdays?”
Landry didn’t respond. He’d given his answer and was apparently satisfied that it required no explanation.
Mary Ellen’s free hand fluttered. “Our family doesn’t... Landry isn’t big on formal events. He doesn’t care about things like holidays and birthdays, except for my girls’. He never misses my girls’ birthdays.”
But he never saw his father then. Separate occasions, Alia guessed. The grandparents one day, the uncle next. What had happened between the admiral and his son that they couldn’t set their problems aside for two hours for a child’s birthday party?
“Did your father have any enemies?” Jimmy asked.
For the first time, Scott Davison spoke. “He was an admiral in the United States Navy. You don’t reach that rank without making a few enemies along the way.”
The higher in pay grade an officer advanced, the fewer the billets, the fiercer the competition. But Jackson’s death hadn’t been caused by professional envy. It had been much too personal for that.
Beside Alia, Jimmy shifted. “You know, Mr. and Mrs. Davison, Mr. Jackson, things’ll go quicker if we talk to you separately. Why don’t we—” he gestured to the Davisons “—stay here, and maybe Special Agent Kingsley could take Mr. Jackson into another room...”
Mary Ellen was quick to agree, to start a suggestion on which room, but her brother overrode her. “You like flowers, Special Agent Kingsley? Because my sister grows some of the prettiest ones around.”
Alia glanced out the windows at the lush garden, catching a glimpse of Jimmy’s mouth twitching in the process. The sunroom was only marginally cooler than the outside temperature, though at least the ceiling fans created a breeze. Outside she would swelter—no doubt the reason Jackson had suggested it.
As she stood, he made a gesture, long lean fingers indicating a set of open doors. Fingers and hands that bore a few scars and calluses but no cuts. No injuries where a blood-slick knife had sliced through skin.
Though a killer with any sense would have worn gloves. Even a crime of passion would have allowed a few moments for finding a pair in the house.
She took the steps down onto the patio, and sweat broke out along her hairline. She loved New Orleans—even kind of loved the humidity—but this was turning out to be one of the heavy, muggy days best spent over an air-conditioning vent. Already her shirt was clinging to her body, and tiny rivulets were rolling down her spine. She swore she could feel blisters forming inside her shoes, and she was already regretting her choice of a suit this morning.
Landry crossed the patio to the yard. With the first step, Alia’s heel sank into recently watered grass. She put on her best blank expression, gritted her teeth and walked with him toward the nearest flower bed. “Do you know any of your father’s enemies?” she asked evenly.
“Twelve years since I saw him,” he reminded her. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze on flowers that were, indeed, pretty: tall, strong and healthy, vibrant colors against lush grass and graceful trees.
“What about your mother?”
He tilted his head to one side. “They were married longer than I’ve been alive. If she were going to kill him, don’t you think she would have done it sooner?”
Alia waited a beat before clarifying her question. “Where is your mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Christmas.”
Six months ago. The only reason more than a week passed without Alia seeing her own mother was the thousand miles between them. She could hardly imagine living in the same town, only a few miles apart, and having virtually no contact.
“Is she on vacation? Visiting family or friends? Doing a grand tour of Europe? Volunteering in the rain forests of South America?”
That earned her a sidelong glance but nothing more.
“She must be somewhere, Mr. Jackson.”
“I don’t know where.” Before she could open her mouth again, he went on. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my parents and I aren’t close. Here’s what I know about my mother’s current whereabouts—one day about three weeks ago, Miss Viola called and asked if I knew she was gone. I didn’t. We weren’t due to see each other again until September. Mary Ellen confirmed that she was, indeed, gone, off to visit relatives. I asked her which relatives. She said the admiral hadn’t told her.” He raised both hands in a final that’s all you’re gonna get ’cause that’s all I know gesture.
Alia gazed at a giant orange zinnia so brilliant that it made her eyes hurt. So Admiral Jackson had given his daughter minimal information, and she’d accepted it. Because that was how their relationship had always been? He’d dominated and she’d accepted?
Could Camilla be dead? Were the rumors true that she’d been institutionalized or had taken off with a lover?
Feeling Landry’s gaze on her, she gently flicked a beetle from the zinnia, then resumed their slow pace. “Who is Miss Viola?”
“Viola Fulsom. She’s my mother’s father’s second cousin three times removed or something.”
In simpler words, family. In Louisiana, it didn’t matter how many times removed; a cousin was a cousin. And yet in this particular family, father and son were estranged, mother and son virtually so. Father was dead, mother was missing, and son...
Was Jeremiah Jackson III a killer? Had he gone into his childhood home, taken a knife from the kitchen drawer and plunged it into his father’s sleeping body more than thirty times?
Alia shuddered deep inside. It didn’t matter how many cases she worked, how many crime scenes she saw or what gruesome details she noted in reports and photographs. She couldn’t quite grasp the character flaw that made it so easy for a person to take another’s life. She could read and talk and investigate, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—crawl inside a killer’s mind any more than she had to.
“Where does Miss Viola live?”
“Where everyone in our family except me has lived for the past five generations.”
The Garden District, with its beautiful houses and wealthy families who sometimes hid more secrets than the darkest bayou.
Alia committed the name to memory. Members of the Jackson and Landry families couldn’t hide in Louisiana even if they wanted to. Too much money to spend, too many parties to attend, too many decades of history to uphold. Miss Viola would be easy to locate.
They were approaching a set of fat-cushioned wicker chairs underneath the spreading branches of a live oak near the back corner of the lawn. A bit of breeze blew through there, redolent with the heavy scents of flowers and, fainter, from someone else’s yard, food cooking over charcoal. The aroma was enough to remind her that she’d skimped on breakfast and it was nowhere near time for lunch.
After Landry sat in one chair, she took the other. The wicker was the expensive kind that didn’t creak with every tiny movement. Crossing her legs, she allowed herself to wonder for a moment what it was like to own a place like this: luxurious, no expenses spared, decorated with antiques and high-end furnishings, wrapped in the long, sultry history of the old, sultry city.
Money doesn’t buy happiness, her mother always said, and Alia had always thought it could certainly help. But the Jacksons proved Mom right: they had money, and they weren’t happy.
“How long have you lived in New Orleans?”
Landry’s head was tilted back, hands folded over his belly, eyes little more than slits. “All my life.”
“Your family didn’t accompany the admiral to his assignments?”
“Camilla Jackson move away from here, even temporarily? Saint Louis Cathedral would crumble to dust first.” Then he did a lazy sort of shrug, so very careless and so very charming to a woman who was the charmable sort.
Thank God, Alia’s weakness for charming scoundrels had died somewhere about the middle of her marriage to Jimmy.
“When the old man got orders,” he went on, “he went, we stayed here, and he came home on weekends and on leave.”
Staying home took all the fun out of the life. She’d been born in the Philippines, started school in Hawaii and finished it in DC, with stops in California, South Carolina, Florida and Virginia. Dropping in at the Pentagon after school had been a regular practice. She’d gotten a gift from the Secretary of the Navy upon high school graduation and even attended a dinner at the White House. “So you missed out on the whole navy brat experience.”
“Jeremiah Jackson had no tolerance for bratty behavior.”
She would bet he hadn’t—not from his children, the sailors under his command or civilians like her who worked for his navy. “What happened between you two?”
She felt the instant he glanced at her. His eyes were still slitted, making it impossible to read their expression, and a small muscle twitched in his jaw. It didn’t bother her; people in general didn’t like being questioned, especially with suspicion. They tended to get annoyed or smug or tearful or angry, and she tended to stay on track. Stubbornness was one of her better traits, according to Jimmy.
But Landry could probably out-stubborn her. She knew he’d only answered her questions because she’d asked them here at his sister’s house. If she had shown up at the bar or his apartment, he would have shown her right back out. She couldn’t compel him to tell her anything important—couldn’t compel him to talk to her at all—and he knew it.
“I think your partner’s ready to go,” he said in a slow drawl accompanied by a gesture toward the house.
A quick look showed Jimmy standing in the doorway to the sunroom, watching them with his hands on his hips. “If you think of something you’re willing to share...” She rose, pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it to him. When he made no move to take it, she laid it on the arm of his chair, sliding one corner between the woven wicker. It fell through, landing crookedly on the lush grass. Neither of them picked it up. Instead, she cut across the lawn to the house and followed Jimmy inside, then out again through the front door.
* * *
Landry watched her until she was out of sight, then slumped lower in his seat and closed his eyes. After the time with her, he’d concluded she was deliberately downplaying her looks with the ugly clothes. In a predominantly male environment, maybe it worked for her, though he couldn’t help thinking she’d have better luck if she did the opposite. What man wouldn’t prefer to talk to her with a little style to the hair, an airy dress almost thin enough to see through, a little cleavage and sexy, strappy sandals to show off those long, lean legs? They’d tell her what she wanted to know—tell her everything they knew—just to keep her around a little longer.
He heard an engine starting out front, then pushed to his feet. Without picking up the business card, he headed for the house, glancing back only for an instant while climbing the steps. It tilted at an angle, caught between blades of lush green grass. He wouldn’t forget her name, and if he ever wanted to talk to her, he could look up the NCIS office number on the computer.
Once she discovered that of all the people who’d hated Jeremiah, no one hated him as much as Landry, she would probably be looking him up.
The sunroom was empty. He ran into Scott, heading for the stairway carrying a heavy crystal tumbler filled with milk, warm, no doubt—Mary Ellen’s go-to when she needed comfort. Their mother preferred gin, and their father had preferred—
Landry’s stomach took a sour tumble that he did his damnedest to ignore. “Is she lying down?”
“Said she would.” With his free hand, Scott combed through his hair. “The detective asked us to ask the relatives about Camilla—see if we can find out who she’s visiting. I never wanted to say anything to Mary Ellen, but I never thought she was visiting family. If she is, why hasn’t she called the girls at least once? And why wouldn’t the admiral say who? Why the secrecy if it was just a regular trip to visit family?”
Because the admiral was a deceitful man. Landry knew some of his uglier secrets. God, he hoped they were the uglier ones, because he damn well didn’t want to think about what could be worse.
“Where do you think she is, then?” His voice was level, but something new stirred deep inside for his mother: worry. Could something have happened to her? Was it coincidence that her husband was murdered just a few weeks after she disappeared?
Scott shifted uncomfortably, glanced up the stairs, then lowered his voice. “I think she left. Left him. Left the marriage. I think she hasn’t called Mary Ellen because she knew she would beg her to come back. I think she didn’t tell anyone where she was going so he couldn’t find her.”
Left. Landry had asked her to leave his father but only once. He was fifteen, desperately trying to figure out his own and Mary Ellen’s futures, and Camilla had given him a sad, sorry look, murmured, You don’t understand, baby, then taken a healthy sip of gin.
Left, when there was no one left to save except maybe herself.
“There’s other theories.” Scott glanced upstairs again. “Seline Moncrief thinks she ran off with a man. Honoria Thomas thinks the admiral checked her into rehab for her drinking problem. Judge Macklin’s wife is convinced that the admiral sent her away because he has no need for her now that he’s retiring.” He stopped, swallowed hard. “Had no need. Was retiring.”
“I hadn’t heard that. When?”
“A couple months. Said he’d done his service to his country and now he wanted to devote his time to his family, golfing and fishing.”
Inside, Landry shuddered, grateful the old man’s definition of family no longer included him. He’d had enough quality time with his father to last through eternity.
He said his goodbyes and covered half the distance to the door before Scott spoke again. When he turned, his brother-in-law was paused on the stairs.
“Mary Ellen said she would appreciate it tremendously if you would help her with the funeral arrangements tomorrow, but she’d understand if you said no.”
Of course she’d take responsibility for the funeral. Who else would? Leave it to Landry, and he’d have the bastard cremated, then flushed down the toilet. But it wasn’t left to him, and though he’d rather do anything else in the world—almost—he would help plan a respectful send-off for the admiral. Not because Jeremiah deserved it, but because Mary Ellen wanted it.
“Let me know when and where.”
Scott nodded, and Landry was finally free to walk out of the house...where he found Alia Kingsley waiting on the porch. A glance at the street showed that DiBiase was gone, and there were no cars around that might be hers.
She’d put on a pair of sunglasses, the really dark kind that made it impossible to see her eyes. He didn’t trust people when he couldn’t see their eyes.
Hell, he didn’t trust most people even when he could see their eyes.
“Forget something?”
“I thought I’d go see Miss Viola now. I need an address.”
He headed down the steps. “You’re the police. Find her yourself.”
“I can do that. But it’s quicker if you tell me. Or—” she matched him stride for stride “—I can ask your sister.”
“Mary Ellen’s resting.”
“Then it would be a shame to disturb her, especially after such a difficult morning.”
Stopping beside his car, he stared at her, implacably calm and unflustered on the other side of the vehicle. “Three blocks that way.” He pointed back the way he’d come. “At Saint Charles. On the left.” Then he stated the obvious. “You don’t have a car.”
The faintest of smiles tilted the corners of her mouth. “It’s still at the admiral’s house. But I run five miles every day. I can walk three blocks.” She turned and started to do just that.
He could let her go—should let her go—but the idea of her questioning Miss Viola alone made a muscle twitch at the back of his neck. The old lady knew all the family secrets. She also knew to keep them to herself. He trusted her on that. At least, he always had.
It was Kingsley he didn’t trust.
“I’m headed that way. I’ll give you a ride.”
She stopped, maybe twenty feet away, and gave him a steady look. He would bet she didn’t believe his plan to go by the Fulsom house was more than a minute old, but she returned to the driveway, opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. She rested her hands in her lap. Long fingers, no jewelry, unpolished nails. Was there no Mr. Special Agent Kingsley, or was she one of those people who preferred to not wear a wedding ring?
As he backed the car into the street, he waited for her to start with a new line of questions. She didn’t. She didn’t complain about the heat in the car, didn’t ask him to turn on the air-conditioning for the short drive. For all she made her presence known, he could have been alone.
When he pulled into Miss Viola’s drive for the second time that morning, she undid her seat belt and opened the door. “You don’t have to get out. I can introduce myself.”
“Right.” He shut off the engine. Obviously she didn’t want him interfering in her interview, but not quite as much as he didn’t want Miss Viola letting anything slip.
They climbed the steps, and he rang the bell. A pretty redhead answered, let them into the foyer and left to get Miss Viola. He stood, hands in his pockets, and hoped his cousin was taking a nap, heading out the door to an appointment that couldn’t wait or entertaining someone she wouldn’t put off just to talk to a cop. The mayor would be nice, the governor even better. Both were frequent guests.
No such luck. A moment later she came into sight, a smile creasing her face. “This is my lucky day, seeing you again so soon after the last time.” Her gaze shifted from him to the investigator, but he had no intentions of providing introductions. He wasn’t here to make things easier for Alia.
“Ms. Fulsom, I’m Special Agent Alia Kingsley with NCIS. That’s the Naval—”
“I know what it is. I watch TV. That Special Agent Gibbs is a fine-looking man, isn’t he?” She sighed, then turned serious. “I assume you’re here about Jeremiah.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is there someplace we can talk privately?”
Miss Viola’s frail hand fluttered in his direction. “Oh, honey, Landry knows everything I do. Jeremiah was his father, after all. We’ll go into the library.” She gestured to the door behind Alia. “The furniture is much more comfortable than the antiques in the rest of the house. Landry, will you bring us iced tea, please?”
Why couldn’t she just ask the housekeeper to bring it? he groused. But for the most part, when Miss Viola asked, he obeyed. After giving Alia a sharp look, he went down the hall to the kitchen.
* * *
Landry didn’t want to leave her alone with Miss Viola. Alia considered that as she followed the woman into the library. Was it just distrust? Or because, turning Ms. Fulsom’s words around, she knew everything about Jeremiah that Landry did? Including what had come between father and son.
“You have a lovely home,” she said as she took a seat in a black leather chair. The sides curved around, almost like a cocoon, and the cushions had just the right amount of give. It was quite possibly the most comfortable chair she’d ever sat in, and as a bonus, it swiveled and rocked, too.
“It is. I’d give you a tour, but the interesting parts are upstairs, and I don’t go up there anymore. Broken hip. Last year. My children turned the ladies’ parlor and a few other rooms into a bedroom suite for me, and I haven’t been upstairs since.”
Her stab at being social taken care of, Alia went right into her questions. Maybe she would learn something before Landry returned. “Ms. Fulsom—”
“Oh, call me Viola like everyone else.”
Alia smiled politely. “Miss Viola, how long have you known the admiral?”
“All of his wo—” Viola stopped, grimaced, then finished. “Life.”
What had she been about to say? His worthless life?
“You don’t regret his passing.”
“That would be unchristian of me, wouldn’t it?” Then the woman shrugged. “I’ve been a good Christian my entire life. God will forgive me this lapse, don’t you think?”
“Why did you dislike him?”
“Did you know him?” she asked in a manner that suggested that would be explanation enough. “The way he treated Camilla, the children, everyone he thought was somehow inferior to him—which included pretty much everyone he ever met.”
Alia glanced toward the open doorway. “You know he and his son were estranged at the time of his death.”
“A lot longer than that,” Miss Viola corrected her. “The boy’s been on his own since he was fifteen and would have been better off if he’d left ten years earlier.”
“What happened between them?”
Miss Viola’s gaze went distant while she fingered a massive ruby ring on her left hand. There was regret in her dim eyes, along with a touch of anger, a bigger touch of shame and definitely some sorrow. After a moment, she sighed. “Landry learned early on that he wasn’t cut out for life in Jeremiah’s home.”
That could mean a dozen things. Had Jeremiah wanted Landry to follow in his footsteps? Had they disagreed on career, education, religion, the life expected of a Jackson in this city? Had Landry refused to kowtow to his father, or had he demanded the old man treat Camilla and Mary Ellen better?
“In what ways?” Alia asked as voices—Landry’s and the housekeeper’s—sounded faintly down the hall. “What expectations did Jeremiah have that Landry wouldn’t meet?” Answer quickly, please, she silently urged as the voices faded and a lone set of steps headed their way.
Again Miss Viola’s gaze drifted before she gave herself a shake and said, “You know how it is with children and their parents.”
As the last word came out, Landry came in, carrying three tall glasses of iced tea. He handed one to his cousin, then offered Alia one. The glass was delicate, the kind of stemware her mother saved for special occasions, the tea freshly brewed, sugary and flavored with mint. As she savored a sip, he moved behind her, feigning interest in the books open on the ancient oak table there.
She asked Miss Viola a dozen more questions and couldn’t help but notice that before she answered even the simplest one, her gaze went to Landry. Delaying to be sure she worded her answer just so or seeking his approval before offering any answer at all? Alia looked at him, too, several times, but his expression never told her a thing. He could be part of the decor for all the overt interest he showed, but Alia was certain he was guiding Miss Viola.
Which made the interview pointless.
After a few more questions, Alia set her glass on a nearby table and stood. “I appreciate your time, Miss Viola. If I think of anything else, I’ll stop by again.” Preferably without any warning so Landry couldn’t control the next interview.
“That would be fine.” Miss Viola also stood. “If you give me a half hour’s notice, I’ll have Molly fix one of the desserts she’s famous for. The doctor tells me to limit my sweets and fried foods and salt and fat, but heavens, I’m eighty-one years old and in perfect health. If I can’t eat what I want, what’s the point of making it to eighty-two?”
The three of them moved to the front door, where she and the old lady exchanged goodbyes. Alia walked outside, unsurprised that Landry followed her. He took the steps beside her before asking, “You want a ride to your car?”
What ulterior motive did he have for offering? Was he just making sure that she did, in fact, leave Miss Viola’s house? Did he want to see the home where he’d grown up, where his father had died a violent death? Did he think she might offer him an under-the-police-tape visit?
Regardless of his motive, she accepted. With the temperature and humidity both hovering close to one hundred, the couple blocks’ walk would sap a good chunk of her energy.
Again, the trip was made in silence. This time he didn’t pull into the driveway, even though the young officer waiting there would have let them pass. He parked across the street and didn’t even glance to his left.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Alia said, watching him closely.
His only response was the twitch of a taut muscle in his jaw.
“You haven’t been here in twelve years?”
Another faint twitch. “Closer to seventeen.”
“Miss Viola said you left home when you were fifteen. Was that the last time you saw the place?”
“Yeah.”
“Going out on your own at fifteen...” Alia gave a shake of her head. At fifteen she’d thought she was grown-up and competent, but her parents had known better. She wouldn’t have made it two days on the street all by her lonesome. “Why did your mother let you do that?”
“She had no choice.” He glanced at her, then at the street ahead, and murmured, “He never gave any of us a choice.”
The words were soft, not meant for her to hear, and the expression on his face was bitter, resigned. She knew from cases she’d worked that some parents lived to make their children’s lives miserable, but she didn’t understand it. Why bring a child into the world if all you intended to do was torment it?
Obviously Jeremiah Jackson had tormented his son.
And that made Landry a viable suspect in Jeremiah’s death.
She asked the question she should have asked first thing back at Mary Ellen Davison’s house. “Where were you between three and six this morning?”
He looked at her then, dark eyes locking on her face. There was no guilt in them, no emotion whatsoever, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d met some skilled liars in her life—had even married one. Popular myths aside, there was no way to look at a person and know beyond a doubt that he was lying.
“I was at the bar. Got roped into filling in for one of my boss’s poker buddies. I didn’t get home until a quarter to six.”
“So you didn’t kill your father.”
Again, he took a long time to answer, and again, his features were unreadable. “No,” he said at last, breaking gazes with her, gesturing toward the passenger door, a clear sign he wanted her to get out.
She did so and was about to close the door when he looked at her again. “But I wish I had.”
“Watch who you say that to.” Closing the door, she circled behind the car to cross the street. The cop on guard was young, probably very new, hot and in need of a break. She smiled at him as she passed, climbed to the top of the incline, then grabbed a lawn chair and toted it back down. “No protocol says you have to pass out from the heat while you’re on watch.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Anybody been here who doesn’t belong?”
“Reporters. Some of ’em are still taking pictures across the street.”
She leaned past him to see the small pods of camera-wielding people on the far side of the street.
“Some people claiming to be relatives stopped by, too. Wanted to go in and get some precious little something-or-other the admiral or his wife promised ’em the last time they were here.”
“Ah, families. Gotta love them.”
She climbed the driveway again, studying the windows, the outdoor spaces, the lawn, the flowers, the detached garage. How well had the killer known this place? Had he been a regular guest? Had he lived for a time in one of those curtained rooms upstairs? Had he been a she, come back from her own disappearance to take revenge on the husband who’d cost her a son?
Once she was inside the house, she wandered through the common areas downstairs before going upstairs. This time she ignored the admiral and Camilla’s suite, turning the opposite direction. The first room she came to was a guest room—lovely, richly decorated. Across the hall was another, and next to it, a girl’s room. This room was impressive and, judging from the pristine state and the faint scent of paint, recently decorated.
The admiral had two young granddaughters, just the right age to appreciate the whimsical colors and design of the room. Every girlie princess fantasy had been incorporated into the space, with enough toys and dress-up clothes to make any girl happy to move in.
The whole prissy/happiness/light room made Alia shudder.
Back into the hall and down to the last remaining door. The knob creaked when she turned it. It was one of those curtained rooms she’d noticed outside. It smelled stuffy, and a flick of the light switch illuminated a layer of dust everywhere. Pale blue walls, a single bed, a desk and wooden chair, a bookcase. No pictures on the walls, no linens on the bed, no television or computer or books on the shelves. No keepsakes. No clothes in the closet. No sign that anyone had lived in the room in the past twenty years.
Or, at least, seventeen.
They hadn’t kept anything that showed a fifteen-year-old boy had lived here, hated here, plotted to escape from here.
Landry would probably be happy that they’d sanitized his memory from the room. After all, he sure appeared to work hard at sanitizing their memories from his life.
