Shades of Twilight by Linda Howard

didn’t give a damn. She could just wake up and listen, for once, to what Roanna had to say.
    She didn’t know what she would do if Webb were there, but she didn’t really expect him to be. He’d been in such a temper when he’d left that he probably hadn’t returned yet, and even if he had, he wouldn’t crawl into bed with Jessie. He’d either be downstairs in the study or asleep in one of the other bedrooms.
    She didn’t need a light; she had wandered Davencourt so much at night that she knew all of its shadows. Silently she drifted down the hallway, her long white nightgown making her look like a ghost. She
felt
like a ghost, she thought, as if no one ever really saw her.
    She paused in front of the door to Webb and Jessie’s suite. A light was still on inside; a thin bright ribbon was visible at the base of the door. Deciding not to knock, Roanna turned the knob. “Jessie, are you awake?” she asked softly. “I want to talk to you.”
    The shrill scream tore through the soft fabric of the night, a long, raw sound that seemed to go on and on, straining, until it broke on a hoarse note. Lights flared in various bedrooms, even down in the stables where Loyal had his own apartment. There was a gabble of sleepy, confused voices crying out, asking questions, and the thud of running feet.
    Uncle Harlan was first to reach the suite. He said,“Godawmighty,” and for once the too-smooth, too-hearty tone was absent from his voice.
    Her hands stuffed into her mouth as if to keep another scream from escaping, Roanna slowly backed away from Jessie’s body. Her brown eyes were wide and unblinking, the expression in them curiously blind.
    Aunt Gloria rushed into the room despite Uncle Harlan’s belated attempt to stop her, with Lucinda close behind. Both women stumbled to a halt, horror and disbelief stunning them to immobility as they took in the gory scene. Lucinda stared at the tableau presented by her two granddaughters, and every vestige of color washed out of her face. She began to tremble.
    Aunt Gloria put her arms around her sister, all the while staring wildly at Roanna. “My God, you’ve killed her,” she blurted, each word rising with hysteria. “Harlan, call the sheriff!”
    The driveway and courtyard were a snarl of vehicles parked at random angles, bar lights flashing eerie blue strobes through the night. Every window in Davencourt blazed with light, and the house was crowded with people, most of them wearing brown uniforms, some of them wearing white.
    All of the family, except for Webb, sat in the spacious living room. Grandmother was weeping softly, her hands ceaselessly twisting a delicately embroidered handkerchief as she sat with slumped shoulders. Her face was ravaged with grief. Aunt Gloria sat beside her, patting her, murmuring soothing but meaningless words. Uncle Harlan stood just behind them, rocking back and forth on his toes, importantly answering questions and offering his own opinions on every theory or detail, soaking in the limelight currently shining on him because of his luck in being the first one on the scene—discounting Roanna, of course.
    Roanna sat alone on the opposite side of the room from everyone else. A deputy stood nearby. She was dully aware that he was a guard, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.She was motionless, her eyes dark pools in a colorless face, her gaze both unseeing and yet encompassing as she stared unblinkingly across the room at her family.
    Sheriff Samuel “Booley” Watts paused just inside the doorway and watched her, wondering uncomfortably what she was thinking, how she felt about this silent but implacable rejection. He assessed the thin frailty of her bare arms, noted how insubstantial she looked in that white nightgown, which wasn’t much whiter than her face. The pulse at the base of her throat beat visibly, the rhythm too fast and weak. With the