Page 146 of Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

“I’ll c-call an ambulance.” Ricky scrambled for the phone. She punched in the number.

“You murdered Emily,” Stilton told Nardo. “Tell me the words. Let me hear you say it.”

Nardo’s mouth opened. A gurgling sound came up from his throat. His teeth had started to chatter. His skin had turned waxy. Blood was seeping between his fingers like water through a sponge.

“Please,” Stilton begged. “You’re not going to make it. Just tell me the truth. I know you murdered her.”

“Help!” Ricky screamed into the phone. “My husband—he’s—oh, God! Help!”

“Say it,” Stilton said. “Look at me and say it.”

Nardo’s eyes focused, but only for a moment. He looked directly at Jack Stilton. The corner of his mouth quivered in a smile.

Stilton said, “Please—”

Nardo took away his hand, the gesture like a showman introducing the final act. A torrent of blood sprayed from the severed artery.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Bible drove while Andrea sat in the back seat of the SUV with Ricky. The woman could not stop sobbing. She was shuddering under the thin cotton blanket from the ambulance. She had refused to go to the hospital. She had refused to make a statement. She had told them that all she wanted was to go home.

There was no legal reason to deny her wishes. Honestly, Andrea wanted nothing more than to get away from the diner. She knew she should be glad that Nardo was dead, but she could not get past the feeling of injustice. He would never pay for raping Emily. He would not stand trial for her murder. Even though his death had been violent, he had still somehow managed to go out on his own terms. He did not deserve a peaceful ending. As Esther Vaughn would say, he hadn’t earned it.

“Wha—” Ricky bit back another sob. “What will they do with—with the body?”

Andrea exchanged a look with Bible. There was a reason they had volunteered to drive Ricky Fontaine home. Nardo had admitted to the rape, but not the murder. On the surface, the difference didn’t have a distinction, but to make a case beyond a reasonable doubt, they needed independent verification. Eric Blakely had drowned forty years ago. Clay Morrow was in prison. Bernard Fontaine certainly wasn’t talking. Jack Stilton had all but proven that he’d had no hand in Emily’s murder. Dean Wexler had invoked his right to remain silent while four Marshals were escorting him down the stairs from the farmhouse.

Ricky might be the only person on earth who could confirm that Bernard Fontaine had murdered Emily Vaughn.

Andrea told her, “Nardo’s body will be taken to the state morgue. They’ll do a full investigation.”

Ricky cried out again. The shaking worsened. She clutched the thin blanket around her shoulders. For once, the silver bangles around her wrists were silent. Ricky had tried in vain to resuscitate Nardo. His blood had formed a glue around the bracelets.

“Here we are.” Bible pulled up the steep driveway to Ricky’s house. He turned to the back seat, telling them both, “Sorry, I need to make a phone call. You ladies let me know if you need anything. Ma’am—”

Ricky looked down when Bible rested his hand on her arm.

He said, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Andrea got out of the SUV. She walked around to the other side to help Ricky. The harsh floodlights did the woman no favors. She had aged in the last hour. The lines in her face were deeper. Dark circles ringed her eyes. She leaned heavily on Andrea as they climbed the stairs. The door wasn’t locked. Ricky pulled it open.

Andrea didn’t wait for an invitation. She went around the living room turning on lamps. Then she climbed the short flight of stairs into the kitchen. The chandelier over the table glowed as she walked to the stove. The kettle was already full. Andrea turned on the gas and waited for it to catch.

She called down to Ricky, “Tea will be ready in a minute.”

She listened, but Ricky had no response. Andrea walked to the edge of the stairs. She could see the top of Ricky’s head in the living room. The woman was sitting on the couch. She was rocking herself back and forth, the blanket still clutched tight around her shoulders. The paramedics had said that she was probably in shock.

Andrea was in shock, too, but she had put too much of herself into this effort to let herself give in.

She found a dirty mug in the sink, a sponge on the windowsill. She strained her ears to listen for Ricky. The sound of her soft cries traveled up from the living room. Andrea carefully washed and dried the mug. She walked to the fridge. She looked at the photos, the postcards, the reminders and receipts. Some of them were so old that the ink had faded. None of them felt particularly personal. Most of the postcards seemed to be from tourists who talked fondly about their time at the diner. They reminded Andrea of the anodyne notes in Ricky’s yearbook—

Chorus was a blast! Remember Chemistry II! Don’t ever change!

Andrea picked up one of the red pill bottles on the counter. Instinctively, she reached for her iPhone. She had no way of looking up the generic names on the labels. The only ones she recognized were diazepam, which was Valium, acetaminophen/codeine, which was Tylenol 3, and oxycodone, which was Percocet. Laura had tried all three at various stages of her cancer treatments, but only oral morphine had managed to lessen the pain.

The kettle started to shriek. Andrea turned off the gas. She reached up to search the cabinet, but then she thought better of it.

She walked to the top of the stairs again. She called down to Ricky, “Where do you keep the tea?”