Page 100 of The Unforgiven

“George, stop bellyaching about that pathetic half-breed. We’re better off without her. I did what had to be done. No God will fault me for cleansing our family of that stain.”

George glared at his grandmother. “I always knew you were cruel and unforgiving, but this…. Does Amelia know?”

“Of course not. No one knows except Joe, and he won’t tell a soul. Not if he wants to keep his children.”

“And Mammy, what have you done to her?”

Sybil let out a bark of laughter. “I fed her to the crocodiles. It was appropriate, I think.”

George sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He felt ill. This was all his fault. He’d given in to his loneliness and disappointment, and his weakness had resulted in the deaths ofMadeline and Mammy. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he’d suspected his grandmother hadn’t told him the truth, but he’d pushed the thought away, too enamored of his son to probe deeper.

“You’d better go now, George. I’m tired,” Sybil said as she laid her book on the bedside table and fluffed her pillows. She set aside one pillow to lie down more comfortably.

George got to his feet and approached the bed. “Good night, Grandmamma,” he said and bent to plant a kiss on his grandmother’s cheek. “Sleep well.”

Sybil slid down on her pillows. “Turn out the lamp, will you?”

“Of course.”

George grabbed the extra pillow and pressed it over Sybil’s face. He held it down, ignoring her muffled screams. She clawed at his forearms and kicked wildly, but after a few moments her thrashing subsided, and she eventually went quiet and still. George waited a little while longer before he removed the pillow and set it aside. He looked at his grandmother’s face for a long time as silent tears slid down his cheeks.

Tomorrow, he would grant freedom to Zachary, Zane, and their families, and give them enough money to start a new life up North. He could never tell them the reason for his generosity, but letting them go was the least he could do, in view of his grandmother’s deeds. He would plan a small, private funeral for her and lay her in the Besson tomb, which he would never visit again until it was his turn to join those already there.

George finally got to his feet, turned out the lamp, and walked softly to the door. He went downstairs to the parlor and poured himself a large cognac. Only a few weeks ago, he’d learned about Jean’s affairs, Corinne’s birth, and his uncle’s incestuous marriage. He’d finally understood why his grandmother had despised Madeline and never forgave her son, but now there were three murders to add to the Besson legacy. Nothing he could dowould atone for what they’d done. His soul was forfeit, and he’d die unforgiven.

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