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Spring was the only time Esme enjoyed being outdoors, before the cloying heat of summer settled like a wool blanket over the countryside, while the air was still drowsy with roses and lilacs, and strawberries lay hidden like Easter eggs in lush, dewy vines.
Her mama had died in the springtime.
Esme had just turned thirteen, and she’d left school to take care of her younger brother and sisters. She’d married at sixteen, had a baby at seventeen and was widowed by the time she turned twenty.
When James and Anna DeLaune moved into the house as newlyweds, Esme had already been working there for years. James had paid her a visit, hat in hand, one Saturday afternoon and asked if she would please stay on and help them out. His young wife was frail and couldn’t handle that big place all by herself. Esme had been there ever since.
Forty years she’d spent taking care of that house, and for the most part, she’d been content with her work. But after Rachel’s death, everything changed. A terrible darkness had settled over the place.
James had doted on that girl—everyone did—and once she was gone, he couldn’t bear to step foot inside. He’d spent most of his time holed up in his chambers at the county courthouse, ignoring the needs of his troubled child and heartsick wife.
Anna hadn’t been strong enough to carry the burden of her grief alone. She’d died a few months later. They said it was heart trouble, but Esme had her doubts. Anna had been a young woman, only thirty-six, and Esme suspected that Doc Washington had fudged the death certificate out of compassion for a family already broken by grief and guilt.
Esme had wondered then—and she would wonder until the day she died—if Anna DeLaune had deliberately taken her own life, leaving her youngest behind to deal with the sorrow in the only way she knew how.
Poor child.
Sarah had always been such a puzzle to Esme. She’d never had any friends to speak of. Didn’t give a hoot about parties and sleepovers the way Rachel had. Instead, she’d spent her time roaming the countryside by herself, sometimes at all hours.
And those eyes…
Lord have mercy, the way that girl could look at you would lift the hair right up off the back of your neck.
But for all her peculiar ways, Sarah had been Esme’s favorite. Maybe because of the way her daddy treated her.
Never made any bones about who his favorite was.
After the funeral, Sarah had closed herself off. Wouldn’t talk to a soul about what happened. Even the special doctor called in by Sheriff Clay couldn’t unlock the secrets trapped in that child’s memory. But there were nights, while in the grip of a nightmare, that she would whisper a name.
Sometimes it seemed to Esme that, if she listened closely enough, she could still hear that name in the wind.
Shivering from the cold seeping in through the window, she lifted her gaze to the roof where moonlight glinted off a thin layer of snow. For a moment…
She blinked and looked again. Jesus Lord.
Someone was up there.
She could barely see him against the backdrop of night sky, but he was there, a nebulous form moving quickly up the slanting roof.
The glass slipped from Esme’s hand and shattered against the cold, tile floor. Shards bit into her bare feet, but she paid scant attention to the pain. Her focus was still on the roof.
He must have been stooped over before, because now he rose up against the moonlight, a towering silhouette with a pale face and dark-rimmed eyes.
Esme tried to scoff at herself. She couldn’t see that kind of detail in the dark. It was nothing more than an old woman’s superstition.
But he was there. No matter how much she wished to deny it.
And in the split second before he bounded over the peak and disappeared on the other side of the roof, Esme could have sworn he’d seen her, too. She could feel the heat of his eyes burning into her soul.
Four
Sarah spotted the glow from the pulsing lights even before they turned onto Elysian Fields. The street was the main thoroughfare through Faubourg Marigny, a neighborhood that had become increasingly hip and trendy as refugees from the French Quarter fled across Esplanade Avenue to escape the tourists.
As they made the corner, she saw the police cars and emergency vehicles lined up at the curb. She counted three patrol cars, a crime-scene van and a vehicle from the Orleans Parish coroner’s office. A grim motorcade that almost always signaled a violent crime.
Even at this hour, lights burned in some of the pastel-painted bungalows and guest cottages along the street, and the curious had begun to gather. A few worried neighbors had thrown coats over their pajamas and hurried out to investigate the commotion. They stood in a tight cluster, breaths frosting on the cold air as a procession of cops marched in and out of the house.
Crime had never been a stranger in New Orleans. A brief calm had settled over the city after the flood, but once the state police and National Guard moved out, the local authorities had been overwhelmed by the escalating violence. Longtime residents already knew to keep a constant vigil. There were places you did not go alone and at night, but the Marigny had never been one of them.
Now, with so many neighborhoods still unlivable, a new breed of criminal—bolder and more violent than ever before—had moved into the upscale safe havens. Once the sun went down, everyone but the very brave or the very foolish was already home, sequestered safely behind locked doors and windows until daylight.
As Sarah got out of the car, a blast of cold air blew down her collar and jolted her from the lingering effects of her Xanax haze. Parks came around to her side and they crossed the street together. She could feel the curious eyes of the neighbors on them, and when she glanced back, a silence settled over the crowd. They shifted uncomfortably and looked away, no doubt wondering about her relationship to the victim.
Parks said something to one of the officers guarding the perimeter, and then he motioned for Sarah to follow as he ducked under the police tape and started up the walkway. Like most houses in the area, the Creole-style cottage was elevated from the ground with steps leading up to a narrow, gingerbread-trimmed porch.
Before they reached the top, the front door opened and Sean came out. Sarah paused with one foot on the next step, her gaze lifting. Someone pushed past her and clambered up to the porch, spoke briefly to Sean, then hurried into the house. Behind her, Parks gently nudged her forward, but Sarah ignored him. Her focus was only on Sean.
He was tall, trim, a commanding presence even at the age of thirty-three. At one time, he’d been the youngest homicide detective on the force, but no one who knew him had been surprised by his rapid ascension. Sean had always been quick to take advantage of an opportunity.
His black wool overcoat was unbuttoned and flapping in the wind. Sarah was surprised he even owned one. The cold front had caught most people unprepared and they’d had to make do with layers of sweaters and jackets.
The coat, however, was his only concession to the frigid temperature. His head was bare, and when he moved from beneath the porch roof, snowflakes settled in his black hair. He brushed them away as he stood gazing down at Sarah.
She’d told herself after his phone call that she wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t let him see how much he’d hurt her. How much seeing him bothered her. Driving by his house in the middle of the night was one thing, but here she had nowhere to hide.
And yet she found herself clinging to his gaze, remembering the intimacy, remembering every nuance and gesture, every whisper, every promise.
She caught herself then and glanced away, but almost immediately her gaze came back to him. He’d called her tonight. He’d asked for her help. She didn’t have to hide or pretend. She had every right to be here.
He came down a step or two and gave Parks a curt nod. But his gaze never left Sarah’s. “Got her here in one piece, I see.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks for that.”
“No problem.”
Parks headed back down the stairs as Sean waited for Sarah. When they reached the porch, he pulled her away from the congestion near the front door.
“Sarah,” he murmured.
She glanced away, unnerved by her reaction to him.
His voice turned gruff. “What the hell have you been doing to yourself? You look terrible.”
Anger tightened her jaw muscles. “It’s good to see you, too, Sean.”
“I’m serious. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I was sleeping when you called.”
She could see skepticism in his face. “And how long had it been before that?”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked in exasperation.
“Doing what?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “I told you earlier, I’m worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Sarah—”
She pulled away when he tried to touch her. “You said you wanted me to look at the victim’s tattoos. That’s the only reason I’m here.”
His features hardened, and that, too, was familiar. Sean didn’t deal well with rejection, not even the mildest rebuke. “Damn it, why do you always have to act like this?”
“Like what?”
“Misunderstood. Put upon. Like you were the only one who got hurt when we split up.”
“You know, Sean, that argument might be a little more convincing if you’d waited longer than four months before getting married. How is Catherine, by the way? Does she know you called me?”
He sighed. “I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”
“Fine. Why don’t you show me what you want me to see and then let me get the hell out of here?”
He ran his hand through his dark hair. It was longer than Sarah remembered, brushing the collar of his overcoat. He could use a shave, too, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. She wasn’t the only one who needed a good night’s sleep.
The front door opened and a young officer hurried onto the porch. He stumbled down the stairs, took a few shaky steps into the yard, then bent over and vomited into a row of frozen camellia bushes.
A wave of nausea rolled through Sarah’s stomach. She tried to tell herself the sound of the cop’s retching had triggered the response, but deep down, she knew it was panic. Not for what she was about to see, but for the way Sean still made her feel.
“This is a bad one, Sarah.”
His voice caused her to jump.
“I don’t have any right asking you to do this. Lapierre would probably have my badge if she got wind of it,” he said, referring to the female lieutenant.
Sarah had heard Sean talk about Angelette Lapierre before. She was a tough, thirtysomething Cajun who had come up through the ranks of the detective bureau. In spite of her age and gender, she’d been recently appointed the Homicide Division commander following a scandal that had claimed badges all the way to the top, decimating an already undermanned police force.
In the wake of her promotion, rumors abounded about her past, her affiliations and an affair with the newly elected mayor. According to Sean, Angelette Lapierre had visions of grandeur and was out to make a name for herself no matter who she had to take down—or sleep with—to get what she wanted.
He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration and weariness settling into every line and groove of his face. “She’s on a tear about crime-scene contamination, which, ask any cop out here, is a joke. It’s always been a problem, but nowadays we get people walking in off the damned street to gawk. Half the time we’re so exhausted, we don’t even notice.”
“If you know you’ll get in trouble, why did you ask me to come here?”
He flexed his fingers, anxious to get back to the action. “Because I want to catch this son of a bitch. And you’ve got more insight into this kind of thing than any detective I know. The rest is just bullshit.”
That was Sean. If he had to break a few rules, exploit an old relationship, he didn’t much care so long as he got results. He was probably more like Angelette Lapierre than he wanted to admit.
“I have a bad feeling this guy is just getting warmed up,” he said. “We find another body, and all hell’s gonna break loose. You can bet your ass, Lapierre will start showing up for some face time. The chief of police, the FBI…they’ll all want a piece of the glory. This may be my only chance to show you a crime scene while it’s still fresh. If you’re willing.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
But he still hesitated. “It’s more than just the tattoos. He drew this all over the walls.” He took a piece of paper from his coat pocket and showed her the sketch he’d made. “You know about this stuff. Can you tell me what it is?”
A tingle shuttled up Sarah’s spine. “It’s an udjat. Some people call it the Eye of Lucifer.”
Sean sucked in a breath. “It’s satanic, in other words.”
“It sometimes has that connotation. It’s also called the all-seeing eye. Maybe the killer is trying to tell you that he’s watching you.”
“Or watching someone.”
The dread deepened, lifting the hair at the back of Sarah’s neck. “Did you find anything else?”
“The victim has a pentagram tattooed in her palm.”
Oh, God…“Nothing out here?”
“You mean footwear evidence?”
She turned, searching the darkness. “Any unusual prints around the house?”
“Define unusual.”
She hesitated. “You’d know them if you saw them.”
“That’s all I get?”
“For now. Are we going inside?”
He gave her an assessing look. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Five
The front door was glossy with heavy coats of black enamel and was trimmed with a brass knocker and doorknob. Sarah paused, the metal numbers hammered into the wooden door frame catching her attention.
She put out a gloved finger to trace them, but Sean stopped her. “The crime scene techs have been out here, but once we’re inside, it’s better if you don’t touch anything.”
A draft of cold air followed them into the house and Sarah stood in the small foyer, shivering, pulse pounding as she took a quick glance around.
Like a lot of residences in the area, the cottage had been gutted and was now in a chaotic state of renovation. Paint cans and drop cloths littered the living room floor, and Sarah could smell varnish, sawdust—and another scent that didn’t belong there.
Sulphur.
Her stomach jolted as the metallic taste of fear coated her tongue. Sean hadn’t told her where the body was, but she knew. Maybe it was the muted voices echoing down the stairwell or the swish of shoe covers in the hallway above her. Or maybe she had innate radar when it came to death and violence.
Sean handed her a pair of plastic booties and she slipped them over her shoes. He put his hand on her elbow, guiding her toward the stairs. Sarah wished she could grab the banister to steady herself, but she remembered his warning not to touch anything.
