My Sweet Annie

48

Anabel must have recognized him. Surely she'd seen him at the funeral, or in photographs. She drew a breath in sharply, her fingers clenching tight around mine.

"What's he doing here?" I breathed. But I knew. I had challenged him when we spoke earlier in the evening. I'd threatened him, almost.

And now my phone, and Ana's, and even Gran's, were all inside.

Royal stood next to his car for a moment, Porkie dancing around his feet with excitement, having transitioned from a vicious guard dog into a welcoming committee of one in an instant. He ignored her. It was such a surreal moment: none of us said a word for what felt like forever.

He broke the silence. "Tabitha. I just came by to check on you. And to talk."

I didn't respond.

"Who's your friend?"

Neither of us offered Anabel's name. "We're fine, Uncle Royal. We were just getting ready to turn in for the night. You should go home. We can talk in the morning."

He spread his hands, starting toward us over the gravel drive. I couldn't see him clearly enough in the dark to make out his expression, but I could see the shape of him, his silhouette slightly bowed, as if the weight of all his years were resting even now on his shoulders. "Oh, now, we can talk for just a minute, can't we?" he asked. "I came all this way. Your friend can wait inside for a minute. Family matters."

"Please go," I said. "I'm not asking."

Royal stopped at the edge of the driveway. I could feel his gaze upon me, sharp and calculating. I wondered if there was anybody else in the world, aside from my Gran, who knew just how crafty he was.

Then he reached into the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. Anabel breathed my name, and my heart plummeted into my stomach.

The shape of the gun in Royal's hand was unmistakable, back lit by the street light.

"Be reasonable," said Royal, "and let's go inside to talk."

***

I sat in the center of the dining room floor with my back against Anabel's, my hand folded over hers in an attempt to offer her some comfort. She was crying. I was just as terrified as she was, but I hadn't hit the tears stage, yet. I think I was too scared to cry. Is that possible?

Uncle Royal had forced us to sit there on the floor together, a distance from anything we might be able to grab—including Ana's phone and Gran's, which he had immediately put into the zippered pocket of his jacket. He had left Porkie outside. We could hear her occasional whine, the scrape of her toenails on the door, but it was a small comfort to know that she would be out of harm's way.

Royal hadn't come here to talk, just as he hadn't called to check up on me after he'd learned about Gran's diaries. He was wearing latex gloves. He had a gun. He had a plan, and I could guess what it was: kill me because of what I knew and make it look like some kind of accident. Maybe a home invasion, a robbery.

But he was sweating, as Gran would have said, like a stuck pig. Whatever it was he'd planned for tonight had not included Anabel. He was older than the two of us combined. I couldn't be sure, but that had to be part of what was making him so obviously nervous.

"Tell me where it is," he said.

He had no idea what the diary looked like. Could I buy us some time while I tried to figure out what to do? If I could just distract him, maybe Anabel and I could overpower him. "I'm not sure. I don't remember where I left it."

Royal raised his eyebrows at me, pointing at me with the gun. "Tabitha, I am not a fool. On the phone today, you implied that you had read some very troubling things. Am I to believe that you misplaced what you must consider a very important piece of evidence?"