Her father’s voice penetrated her fog of horrified revelation.“Savannah, I never meant for anything to happen to her. It was an accident.”
She straightened and turned to stare at him with new understanding. Loathing toward him had stripped away any illusions still clinging from her childhood. Was he even capable of love? What kind of man would do this?
“You were already skimming money from TGU. Why would you risk Ella’s life for more? She loved you.”
Her father’s eyes watered. “I—I got into a spot of trouble with a gambling debt. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
A rush of movement came from the back of the building, and Augusta burst into view with two uniformed officers. She clapped cuffs on Dad and glanced at Hez with a question in her eyes.
“He confessed to orchestrating the kidnapping attempt that killed our daughter,” he said in a bereft tone. His hands fell away as one of the officers led her father, still protesting, away.
The strength ebbed from Savannah’s legs, and she sank onto the grass with tears surging to her eyes. Hez settled on the grass beside her and pulled her into his arms. She wept against his chest. “How could he?” she whispered. “How could he?”
Michael leaned against the wall of the exercise yard at the Bay Minette jail, watching a basketball game. The hot June sun and thick humidity slowed the players to a jog and took the spring out of their jumps. Michael wasn’t interested in basketball, but he didn’t have anything better to do.
A big, heavily tattooed man walked up and nodded to Michael before taking a spot along the wall, bringing the now-familiar scent of unwashed male body with him. Patrick Jefferson was one of several of Michael’s employees who had been rounded up during the smuggling raids and were still at Bay Minette awaiting trial or serving short sentences. “Morning, Mr. Michael. How’d the arraignment go? Is your lawyer workin’ on a plea deal?”
“Pled not guilty, of course. As for a plea deal...” Michael shrugged one shoulder. “My attorney is meeting with the DA today, but it doesn’t matter much. I’ll be in prison for the rest of my life.”
They watched the game in silence for several minutes. Then Patrick nudged Michael and nodded toward the far end of the yard. “That him?”
Michael looked in the direction Patrick indicated. Under the watchful eye of a guard, Pierre Legare wandered along a weedy strip of grass, shuffling like a zombie. His normally perfect silver-streaked brown hair was matted on one side, and his face was unshaven and slack. Michael doubted Pierre had slept much since his arrest two days ago. “Yeah, that’s Pierre Legare.”
“Heard about him on the news last night. The TV in the recreation area had him on every channel.” Patrick made a face like his septic tank had just backed up. “Killed his own granddaughter and pinned it on ol’ Deke. Those Legares are a bad bunch.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“Trash. Total trash.”
“Yep.”
Patrick lowered his voice and leaned toward Michael.“Wanna take out the trash? I’ll bet we can get to him, even in protective custody.”
Pierre’s gaze wandered across the yard and found Michael. Recognition and surprise flickered in his bloodshot eyes for a moment, but his face went blank again after a few seconds and he went back to meandering.
“Not worth it.” Michael turned to Patrick. “Man’s already dead.”
Patrick shrugged meaty shoulders. “If you say so.” He turned back to the basketball game, leaving Michael to his thoughts.
Already dead. Pierre had lost everything he cared about—his money, his reputation, his pampered lifestyle. His facade had been ripped away, exposing the decayed soul underneath for all to see. He loved to lord it over everyone he met, and now even the common criminals in the yard looked down on him—and rightly so. Pierre now lived in what Walt Whitman called “hell under the skull-bones,” and Michael had no intention of freeing him through physical death.
Michael had suspected Pierre’s role in Ella Webster’s death from the moment Deke told him about the mystery phone calls in the aftermath of the drowning. Michael knew he hadn’t called Deke, of course, and Pierre’s ongoing snooping easily could have discovered that Michael used burner phones and voice-altering software. The thought of a man kidnapping his own grandchild for money was stomach-churning but perfectly in character for Pierre Legare.
Michael had scoured the files he had on Pierre for evidence proving his suspicions. He even had Tammy grab the file on Ella’s death in hopes that it might contain a puzzle piece or two. He’d come up dry, but Deke’s confession had set theWebsters on the trail, just as Michael had hoped it would. His nephew wasn’t the sharpest of the Willards, but he had unintentionally set a Legare to catch a Legare. Beautiful. And to make the situation even sweeter, the news stories about Pierre were sprinkled with tidbits Michael knew came from his file.
Michael had won. His victory had come at a steep price, but it was complete. And yet...
They said vengeance was a dish best served cold, but Michael felt like he was holding an empty icy plate. Everything he’d done, everything he’d sacrificed, led him to this point. He had come to the end of the mission he set himself—really the end of his life—and he finally gripped the prize in his hands. But somehow he held only ashes.
Chapter 43
Savannah smoothed the champagne lace dress and its sequins over her hips. The skirt flared and swirled just above her ankles, so it was perfect for the white sand. A recording of the Beach Boys sang “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” outside the tent as the guests made their way to the chairs. A fresh sea breeze blew in from the bay just yards away. Hez’s parents had come from Oregon, and they sat with his cousins on Hez’s side of the guests. Her side held only friends.
If only Jess were with her.
She stared at her image in the full-length mirror Nora had thoughtfully brought for her. Tendrils of auburn hair trailed along the curve of her cheeks and a few more along her neck. Her green eyes were luminous with excitement, and her lips couldn’t stop smiling. Makeup had masked most of her bruise, but pictures would always be a reminder of what they’d gone through to get here.
June 20, her wedding day. She’d thought it would never come.
