The author of over twenty-five books, Erica Spindler is best known for her spine-tingling thrillers. Her novels have been published all over the world, selling over eleven million copies, and critics have dubbed her stories “thrill-packed page turners, white-knuckle rides, and edge-of-your-seat whodunits.”

Erica is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. In 2002, her novel Bone Cold won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence.

Also by Erica Spindler

BREAKNECK

LAST KNOWN VICTIM

COPYCAT

KILLER TAKES ALL

SEE JANE DIE

IN SILENCE

DEAD RUN

BONE COLD

ALL FALL DOWN

CAUSE FOR ALARM

SHOCKING PINK

Forbidden Fruit

By Erica Spindler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Melissa Senate For all the years and all the books

Acknowledgements

My heartfelt thanks to the following people for their part in bringing Forbidden Fruit to life:

Linda Kay West

Lieutenant John Jackson

Sergeant Michael Pfeiffer

Metsy Hingle

Jan Hamilton Powell

Karen Stone

Cary Weissert

Dianne Moggy

Melissa Senate

Nathan Hoffman

Evan Marshall and MIRA Books

Part 1 Hope

Prologue

Vacherie, Louisiana 1959

Hope Pierron sat in the window seat of her third floor bedroom and gazed out at the Mississippi River. She smiled to herself, anxiousness and excitement coiling in the pit of her gut. She controlled both with icy determination. She had waited all her life for this day; now that it had come, she would not reveal herself by appearing too eager.

She pressed a hand to the sun-warmed glass, wishing she could break it, leap out and fly to freedom. How many times during her fourteen years, years spent trapped within the red walls of this house, had she wished the same thing? To be a bird, to leap from the window and fly to freedom?

After today, she wouldn’t need to wish for wings. After today, she would be free of this house. Of the stigma of sin. Free of her mother and all who she had known.

Today she would be reborn.

Hope closed her eyes, thinking of her future, yet picturing her past and this hated house, instead. The Pierron House had been a fixture on River Road, a part of the culture of southern Louisiana since the summer of 1917. That had been just before the demise of Storyville, when her grandmother Camellia, the first Pierron madam, had moved her daughter and her girls here.

Surprisingly, neither hue nor cry had erupted then, nor when the gentlemen began calling. All these years later, this house, the activities within, were still accepted, just as the heat and mosquitos of August were accepted—with resigned dismay and sugar-sweet disdain.

Hope supposed one could expect no less; after all, this was Louisiana, a place where food, drink and other sensory intoxicants were as much a part of day-to-day living as mass and confession. Louisianians accepted their penance with as much joie de vivre as they did their pleasure; they understood that in a strange way, The Pierron House represented both.

The building itself, a Greek Revival structure with twenty-eight imposing Doric columns and sweeping wraparound galleries, was an architectural wonder. Ironically, when the afternoon sun struck it just so, the house glowed a virginal, almost holy white. When the sun set, however, the illusion of holiness ended. The house came alive with the music of men the likes of Jelly Roll Morton and Tony Jackson, the walls rang with the laughter of those who had come to taste the forbidden fruit and of those who sold it.

Every evening of her life she had been forced to hear that laughter, had been forced to witness the regularity with which her mother’s girls led their gentlemen up the serpentine staircase. Cloaked in a sinfully plush, bloodred carpet, those stairs led to the six large bedrooms on the second floor, bedrooms outfitted opulently with silks and brocades and large, soft beds.

Beds designed to make a man feel like a king or, on a particularly good night, a god.

For as long as she could remember, Hope had known what went on in those bedrooms. Just as she had known who and what she was—the whore’s daughter, a trick baby, tainted by sin.

From secret places and small, unnoticed peepholes, Hope had watched with a mixture of fascination and horror the things that men and women did with each other. And sometimes, while the couple writhed on the bed, she would rock back and forth, her thighs pressed tightly together, her breath coming in small, uneven gasps.

Those were the times The Darkness held her in its grip, clamoring for unholy release.

Afterward, guilty and ashamed, Hope would punish herself. The way she touched herself, the things she watched, were wrong. Sinful. She had learned of her sin at mass and in catechism, as she sat alone because none of the other children would come near her. Yet, outside the church walls and inside these, such behavior was lauded—especially by the men who laughed by night and averted their eyes by day.

At the creak of the stairs that led to her bedroom, Hope turned away from her window and faced the door. A moment later, her mother appeared in the doorway.

Lily Pierron was an incredible beauty, same as all the Pierron women had been. Her face and figure seemed not to have aged with the years; her hair was the same velvety blue-black it had been in Hope’s childhood. The other whores commented on it behind her mother’s back; Hope had heard them whispering. They speculated that Lily had made a pact with the devil. They speculated that all the Pierron women had.

All except Hope. Hope was not nearly as beautiful as her mother—her own hair was a deep brown instead of black, her eyes a watery rather than brilliant blue, her features sharp instead of soft.

She was not as beautiful because The Darkness was not as strong in her.

“Hello, Mama,” Hope murmured, fixing a sweet, sad smile on her mouth.

The older woman returned her melancholy smile and took a step into the room. “You look so grown-up standing there like that. For a moment, I hardly recognized you.”

Hope’s heart began to thud against the wall of her chest. “It’s just me, Mama.”

Her mother laughed softly and shook her head. “I know. But it seems only yesterday you were a baby.”

And only an eternity of yesterdays that she was a prisoner of this place. “To me, too, Mama.”

Lily crossed to the bed and the suitcase that lay open on top of it. Hope saw the effort it took her mother to keep from falling apart, and wondered if her mother noticed that her daughter’s eyes were dry, her hands and voice steady. She wondered what her mother would say if she knew the truth, if she knew that her only daughter planned to never see her again.

“Is this the last one?” her mother asked. “The car will be here any moment.”

“Yes. I’ve already taken the others down.”

Lily carefully tucked the final few items into the case, then closed the bag and fastened the clasps. “There.” She lifted her swimming gaze to Hope’s. “All ready to…go.” Her throat closed over the last, and the word came out choked.

Hope forced herself to cross to her mother. She caught Lily’s hands with her own and brought them to her cheek. “It’s going to be all right, Mama. Memphis isn’t that far.”

“I know. It’s just that—” Her mother drew in a ragged breath. “How am I going to manage without you? You’re the best thing…the only good thing in my life. I’m going to miss you desperately.”

Hope curved her arms around her mother, fighting a smile. She hid her face against her mother’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you, too. So much. Maybe I shouldn’t go. Maybe I should stay and help—”

“No! Never!” Lily cupped Hope’s face. “You will not end up like me. I won’t allow it, do you hear? This is your chance to escape. It’s what I’ve always wanted for you. It’s why I named you Hope.” She tightened her fingers. “You were always my hope for the future. You mustn’t stay.”

This time Hope couldn’t contain her smile. “I’ll make you proud, Mama. You wait and see.”

“I know you will.” Lily dropped her hands. “Everything’s set. St. Mary’s Academy is expecting you. You’re from Meridian, Mississippi, the only child of wealthy parents.”

“Who travel abroad,” Hope filled in. She laced her fingers together, nervous suddenly. “What if someone discovers the truth? What if one of my classmates is from Meridian? What if—”

“No one will discover the truth. My friend has seen to everything. Not one other girl from Mississippi attends the academy. Even the headmistress believes you’re Hope Penelope Perkins. No one will question your story. Feel better now?”

Hope searched her mother’s expression, then nodded. She knew her mother’s “friend” to be none other than the Governor of Tennessee. He and her mother went way back; Lily knew many—if not all—of his darkest secrets. Secrets she would go to her grave with. Of course, such loyalty sometimes demanded return—in the form of favors.

The sound of a horn sliced through the humid afternoon. Hope’s heart flew to her throat, and she raced to the window. Three stories below, the airport shuttle idled in the driveway while Tom, the houseman, helped the driver load the bags.

Lily followed her to the window. “Dear Lord, it’s time already.” She laid her hands on Hope’s shoulders, her cheek against her hair. “I don’t know how I’m going to bear this.”

Hope sucked in a deep breath, joy a living thing inside her. Almost free. Just a few more minutes and she would never see her mother or this hated house again. She struggled to keep from laughing out loud.

Her mother sighed, dropped her hands and took a step away. “We’d better go.”

“Yes, Mama.” Hope collected the suitcase, then she and her mother started for the stairs. Her mother’s girls were waiting for them in the foyer. They each hugged and kissed Hope, they each wished her well and made her promise to write.

The youngest of the group—a girl not much older than Hope—handed her an apple, lush and red and ripe. “In case you get hungry,” she said softly, her eyes bright with tears.

Hope took the girl’s offering though the fruit burned like acid against her palm. She longed to fling it away and run, but forced herself to meet the whore’s eyes and smile. “Thank you, Georgie. It was sweet of you to think of me.”

Hope stepped outside, her mother beside her. The breeze off the River was hot and slow, but sweet still; it washed over her, cleansing her of the stench of the house and its history. Her history.

Her mother drew her into her arms and clung to her. “My darling, darling baby, I will miss you so much.”

Hope fought the urge to tear herself from her mother’s arms and race to the waiting vehicle. She allowed her mother to kiss her one last time, promising herself that she would never again have to endure her vile touch.

The touch of sin.

The driver cleared his throat. Hope said a silent thank-you and eased from her mother’s grasp. “I have to go, Mama.”

“I know.” Lily curved her arms around her middle, battling tears. “Call me when you arrive.”

“I will,” Hope lied. “I promise.”

She started for the car, counting the steps. With each she felt as if another piece of her past was falling away from her, like layers of smothering clothing, ones made of wet, rotting wool.

The driver opened the door. She moved to get in, then stopped and looked over her shoulder at The House, at her mother standing in its shadow, at the whores, clustered in the doorway. Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.

Today she was reborn as Hope Penelope Perkins. Today she left The Darkness behind.

Letting the apple slip from her fingers, she turned and stepped into the car.

Chapter 1

New Orleans, Louisiana 1967

The perfume of flowers hung in the air, almost overpowering in its sweetness. The scent mixed strangely with those of the maternity ward, creating another that was both appealing and repugnant. Even so, fresh arrangements arrived hourly, enthusiastic offerings sent to herald the birth of Philip St. Germaine III’s first child.

The excitement was understandable. After all, this child would be heir to the family’s wealth and social position, this child would be heir to the venerable St. Charles, the small luxury hotel built in 1908 by the first Philip St. Germaine.

For this child, nothing was too much.

Hope gazed down at the newborn, nestled in the bassinet beside her bed. Despair and disappointment, so bitter they burned her tongue, roiled inside her. She had prayed for a boy. She had done the rosary, she had done penance. She had been so certain her prayers would be answered that she had refused to consider names for a girl.

Her prayers had not been answered; she had been cursed instead.

She had given birth to a daughter, not a son. Just as her mother and grandmother had, just as every Pierron woman had for as many generations back as she could recall.

Hope drew a deep breath, bile rising like a poison inside her. She hadn’t escaped the Pierron legacy, after all. She had managed to believe, to convince herself for a while, that she had. In the eight years that had passed since she’d walked away from the house on River Road, she had brought each of her plans to fruition: she had left behind her mother and the stigma of being the whore’s daughter; she had married Philip St. Germaine III, a wealthy man, a man from an impeccable and prominent family; she was now one of New Orleans’s premier matrons.

But today she saw that although she had left her past behind, she hadn’t escaped it. The Pierron curse had followed her.

The baby girl was already a beauty, with light skin, vivid blue eyes and velvety dark hair. As with all the Pierron women, this one would possess the ability to bewitch and enslave men; she, too, would have the great, ugly darkness inside her. The ugliness that would chain her to a life of sin and an afterlife of eternal damnation.

Hope shuddered. For didn’t she, too, have The Darkness inside her? Didn’t it sometimes burst free, despite how hard she fought to keep it locked way?

Philip entered the room, his face wreathed in a beatific smile, his arms laden with a huge bouquet of pink roses. “My darling. She’s beautiful. Perfect.” The florist’s paper crackled as he laid the bouquet on the bed. He bent and pressed a kiss to Hope’s forehead, careful not to disturb his sleeping child. “I’m so proud of you.”

Hope turned her face away, afraid he would see her true feelings, afraid he would see the depth of her despair and revulsion.

He sat on the edge of the bed. “What is it? Hope, darling…” He turned her face to his. He searched her expression, his own concerned. “I know you wanted a son for me. But it doesn’t matter. Our little one is the most perfect child ever born.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked against them. Still, one slipped past her guard and rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, love, don’t cry.” He drew her against his chest. “It really doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? Besides, we’ll have other children. Many more.”

The pain inside her grew almost unbearable. Hope knew what her husband did not: there would be no more children for them. She, like her ancestors, would be unable to carry another child to term. That was a part of the curse, the Pierron women were allowed only one child, always a daughter. To that daughter they would pass The House and the legacy of sin.

Hope curled her fingers into the soft, fine fabric of his jacket. She longed to share her thoughts with him, but knew he would be shocked, horrified, to learn the truth about his perfect wife. And now, his perfect daughter, too.

He could never know. She swallowed hard and pressed her face to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of the rain that lingered on his jacket, preferring it to the cloying atmosphere of the room. No one could ever know.

“I just wish,” she whispered, working to achieve just the right mixture of grief and wistfulness in her tone, “that my parents could have lived to see her. It’s so unfair. Sometimes it hurts so much, I…I almost can’t bear it.”

“I know, my darling.” For several moments, he cradled her against his chest, then eased her away, his lips lifting into a small smile. “I have something for you.” From his jacket pocket he drew out a jeweler’s box. Stamped on the lid of the midnight-blue leather case was the name of New Orleans’s finest jeweler.

With trembling fingers, Hope opened the box. Inside, nestled on the white velvet, lay a strand of perfectly matched pearls. “Oh, Philip.” She took out the necklace and brought it to her cheek. The pearls were cool and smooth against her skin. “They’re exquisite.”

His lips lifted, and he shifted his gaze to the baby, who had begun to stir. “They’ll be hers one day. I thought it appropriate.”

Hope’s pleasure in the gift vanished, and she replaced the necklace in its box. He adored his daughter already, Hope thought, following his gaze. He had been bewitched, snared by The Darkness. And the fool didn’t even know it.

“She’s caused a sensation in the nursery,” he continued, not tearing his gaze from the bassinet. “Nurses from all the floors have heard about her, about her beauty, and have come to see her. She’s caused a traffic jam at the viewing window.” He turned back to his wife, covering her hand with his, curving his fingers reassuringly around hers. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

The baby stirred and whimpered, then began to cry. Hope shrank back against the pillows, knowing what was expected of her but unable to bear the thought of holding the child to her breast.

The baby’s cries, at first small, pitiable mewls, became shrill, angry demands.

Philip frowned, obviously confused. “Hope, darling…she’s hungry. You have to feed her.”

Hope shook her head, cringing deeper into the pillows. To her horror, her breasts, engorged and aching, began leaking milk. The baby’s face grew red as the fury of her wails increased. Her features contorted into something ugly and terrifying. Something Hope recognized from her nightmares.

The Darkness. Dear God, it was strong in this child.

Philip tightened his fingers over Hope’s. “Darling…she needs you. You must feed her.”

When Hope didn’t move, Philip scooped up his daughter. He rocked her awkwardly, but her cries didn’t diminish. He held the child out to Hope. “You must.”

Hope looked wildly about the room, desperate for a way to escape. Everywhere she looked, she saw The Darkness, everything reminded her what a fool she had been.

She hadn’t escaped the Pierron legacy. She never would.

Trapped, she thought, a frantic hopelessness beating inside her. She was trapped. Just as she had been all those years ago.

“I can’t,” she said, hearing the hysteria in her own voice. “I won’t.”

“Darling—”

“Mrs. St. Germaine?” The nurse rushed in. “What’s wrong?”

“She won’t feed her,” Philip said, turning to the nurse. “She won’t take her from me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Mrs. St. Germaine,” the nurse said crisply, her voice brooking no disobedience. “Your daughter is hungry. You must feed her. She will stop crying the minute—”

“No!” Hope drew the blanket to her chin, her fingers curled so tightly into the fabric that they went numb, panic pumping through her until she shook with it. “I can’t.” She turned to her husband, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Please, Philip, don’t make me do this. I can’t do it. I won’t.”

He stared at her as if she had sprouted horns. “Hope? What’s wrong? Sweetheart, this is our child, our baby. She needs you.”

“You don’t understand…you don—” The last caught on a sob and she turned her face to the pillows. “Go…away. Please, just leave me alone.”

Chapter 2

Philip August St. Germaine III had an idyllic life, one of those existences so untroubled that others commented enviously on it. He had the right family, all the right and best things; he was healthy, athletic and handsome enough. He had sailed through school, in part because of native intelligence, but more because of the charm he had acquired through breeding.

In truth, Philip had never had to work for anything, not for grades or girls or a living. Everything had been handed to him not only on a sterling platter—the St. Charles being the crown jewel on that platter of glittering gems—but with an adoring smile. For Philip, the years flowed effortlessly one into the other.

Far from being bothered by his lack of effort in shaping his own life, he accepted it all graciously, as his due and his wonderful lot in life. He did feel for those poor souls who struggled and suffered, and he never forgot to give—and give plentifully—to the Church, both in thanks for his bounty and as a sort of insurance policy against guilt.

Frankly, until thirty-six hours ago, Philip August St. Germaine III had thought, with justifiable arrogance, that nothing ugly or unhappy could ever touch him.

Now, as he stood at the maternity ward’s nursery window and watched a stranger feed his baby, his beautiful, perfect daughter, that same arrogance mocked him. Now, he felt as if his idyllic life was crumbling around him.

The last day and a half had been like a nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken. The wife he adored, usually sweet-tempered and genteel, had become a person he didn’t recognize. A person who frightened him.

He brought a hand to his head, heavy and aching from stress and lack of sleep. It wasn’t only that she had cursed at him, spitting out words he would have sworn she didn’t, and couldn’t, know. It was more than the fact that she had told him she hated him when he had tried insisting they pick out a name for their child.

No. It was the way she had looked at him, an almost maniacal light burning in her eyes, that frightened him. Because when she’d looked at him that way, he had felt, deep down in his gut, that the life he had known was gone forever.

Philip jammed his hands deep into his trouser pockets and gazed at his daughter, sucking greedily on a bottle of formula. She was the image of her mother already. He couldn’t understand how Hope could look at her with such horror, how she could recoil from touching her. He pressed the heels of his hands to his burning eyes. When she looked at their precious daughter, what did she see that he didn’t?

If only he could understand, if only he could crawl inside his wife’s head, maybe he would be able to help her. And then, maybe, his world would stop rocking around him.

Her behavior had come out of nowhere. She had looked forward to the birth of their first child. Her pregnancy had been an easy one; she had suffered from neither morning sickness nor mood swings. They had talked about all the things this child would do and be. Other than her absolute conviction that she carried a boy, her attitude about motherhood had seemed completely normal.

Now this. A shudder of fear moved over him. What would he do if he had lost her? If the woman he had known and loved so desperately had ceased to exist forever? How would he go on? He loved her beyond reason; he had from the first.

Inside the nursery, the attendant finished feeding and burping Philip’s daughter and laid her in her crib. Philip watched, seeing instead Hope as she had looked the night they first met. He had been in Memphis on business; they’d been introduced by friends. She had been laughing, her head tipped to the side, her long, silky hair falling softly against her cheek. He’d had the urge to touch it, to bring the dark strands to his lips to test their texture and taste. He could recall the exact rose shade of her mouth, could recall the way she’d pursed her lips in amusement, could remember that he had become aroused just watching her speak.

She had turned and met his eyes. He’d sensed that she knew exactly what he was thinking, that she was glad he was thinking it. In that moment, he had fallen madly in love with her. It had been as simple, and as complicated, as that.

That night and for the remainder of his business trip, they had been inseparable. He had told her everything about himself, and she had shared her life with him. The tragic story of her parents’ accidental death while traveling in Italy, of how she had been left alone in the world at seventeen, had touched him deeply.

Something about her had made him feel like the most powerful, the most important man in the world. He had wanted to shield her from the harsh world, had wanted to protect her from all of life’s unpleasantness. He had wanted to bring her into his charmed circle.

If he had been a less cautious man, he would have proposed on the spot. Instead, he had waited six long, agonizing weeks.

Family and friends had thought him insane until they met her. Then they, too, had fallen under her sweet spell. Even his demanding, ever-critical parents had thought her the perfect choice.

Not that it had mattered what they thought. He had been prepared to defy them, he had been prepared to give up everything for her.

Their wedding night had been an experience beyond his fantasies. She had done unimaginable, incredible things to his body, yet with such sweet, almost tentative innocence, that he had felt as if he were deflowering a virgin. Even now, standing in plain view of the world, his life in turmoil, thinking of that night brought swift, stunning arousal.

Sometimes he felt as if his life revolved from night to night, from one opportunity to make love with her to the next. Those times when she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—were a kind of torture beyond his previous experience. No woman before Hope had had such a hold on him; it was as if without her his heart couldn’t beat.

“There you are.” Hope’s doctor came up to stand beside him. Harland LeBlanc had delivered a host of St. Germaine babies, and although nearly sixty, he looked a decade younger. Since the man was considered the top obstetrician in New Orleans, Philip took some comfort in knowing Hope had the best care available.

The older man motioned to the nursery. “You have a beautiful daughter, Philip. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful infant.”

Philip looked at the other man, then returned his gaze to the nursery window. “Yet, Hope can’t bear to look at her. She’s yet to hold her. She won’t even consider a name.”

“I know it’s been difficult, but—”

“Difficult?” Philip said, his tone caustic. “I don’t think you do know, Harland. I don’t see how you can. You weren’t there this morning when Hope swore at me. When she told me she hated me. All because I wanted to pick out a name for our daughter.” He drew a painful breath. “The way she looked at me was…chilling. I never thought my wife would look at me that way.”

The physician laid a hand reassuringly on Philip’s shoulder. “Believe it or not, I do understand what you’re going through. I’ve seen this type of behavior before, and it will pass. Everything is going to be all right, Philip.”

“Are you so certain of that?” Philip drew a hand across his forehead. “What if it doesn’t pass? I couldn’t bear to lose her. She’s everything to me, she’s—” He cleared the lump from his throat, feeling exposed and foolish. He shifted his gaze to the nursery and his sleeping daughter. “I love my wife, Harland. Too much, I sometimes think.”

The doctor gave Philip’s shoulder a comforting squeeze, then dropped his hand. “What Hope’s going through isn’t as uncommon as you might imagine. A surprising number of women experience depression after childbirth. On occasion, the depression is so severe, so all-encompassing, the woman abandons her family. Or worse.”

Philip met the other man’s gaze once again. He lifted his eyebrows at the physician’s solemn expression. “Worse, Harland?”

“Women in the grip of this blackness have killed their newborns, Philip. As horrifying and foreign as that may seem.”

Philip made a sound of shocked disbelief. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Hope might…that she could…kill our child?”

“Of course not,” Harland said quickly, his tone confident. “But I do think we should keep her here a few more days. We need to monitor her. Just to be sure.”

Dear Lord. Just to be sure? Of what?

Fear thundered through Philip, taking his breath, stealing the remnants of his peace of mind. Harland LeBlanc, Philip realized, considered top in his field, a doctor who had seen everything, was worried. More worried than he wanted to let on.

Philip breathed deeply through his nose, working to steady himself. But Harland didn’t know Hope the way he, her husband, did. All she needed was a return to normalcy. She needed to be surrounded by her things and the people who cared about her.

“Do you really think that’s necessary, Harland? Hope needs to be home. Our baby needs to be home. Once there, Hope will adjust. I know she will.”

“What if she doesn’t? Postpartum depression is caused by the tremendous imbalance of hormones in a woman’s body. Hope has no control over these feelings she’s having, she’s awash in them. She’s not trying to be difficult or unreasonable.”

The doctor shook his head. “What if I send her home too early and she doesn’t adjust? What if I send her home and the unspeakable happens? I don’t want to take that chance.” He met Philip’s gaze evenly. “Do you, Philip?”

The unspeakable. Or worse. Philip swallowed hard. “No. Of course not.”

“Good. Your wife needs you now. You say you love her, well, now’s the time to prove it.”

Philip willed away his frustration and selfish fears. Hope needed him. His daughter needed him. He had to be strong. “What can I do?” he asked. “Just tell me what I can do.”

“Be supportive. Understanding and loving. I know it’s hard, but you must remember that Hope is not in control of her emotions. She’s as frightened as you are right now. Probably more. She needs time. She needs your patience and love.”

Philip turned his gaze to his sleeping daughter, so tiny and helpless his heart broke for her. She needed her mother. She needed to go home. “And if my love and support aren’t enough? What then, Harland?”

For a moment, the physician said nothing. Then he sighed. “They’ll have to be, Philip. Right now, you don’t have any other options.”

Chapter 3

Hope awakened with a start. Breathing hard, clammy with sweat, she moved her gaze over the dimly lit room, expecting to see the outfittings of the third-story bedroom she had grown up in. Instead, she saw the simple, functional furnishings of her hospital room.

Hope drew in a deep, shuddering breath, relief spiraling through her. She was in New Orleans. She was Hope St. Germaine; the River Road house was far away. Part of a previous lifetime, someone else’s lifetime.

Hope drew in another deep breath, the effects of the nightmare still clawing at her. In it, she had been back at The House, crouched low and spying on a couple having sex. Only, in the dream, it had been her daughter on the bed, her daughter performing the lewd sex acts.

Yet, when her whore-child had looked over her shoulder, as if sensing Hope’s spying gaze, it was her own face Hope had seen staring back at her.

Making a helpless sound of fright, Hope pulled herself into a sitting position. She clutched the bedding, willing away the image from the dream. She knew what was happening to her; she knew why, night after night, she was being tormented with nightmares of the past she had left behind.

The Darkness was upon her, taunting and challenging. It thought it had won already.

No! Hope brought her trembling hands to her face. She wouldn’t let The Darkness win. She couldn’t. She had worked too hard for all she had achieved to succumb now.

Hope hugged her knees to her chest. She rocked, her head pressed to her knees, her mind whirling. Who could she turn to for help? Who could she trust? Philip was losing patience with her. Their family and friends were acting strangely, distant and suspicious. She saw the questions in their eyes. She saw the disapproval in their expressions. How long until someone uncovered the truth about her past? How long until the life she had built for herself crumbled to bits beneath her feet?

She had to accept her child; she had to behave like a doting, besotted mother. She had to behave as if she didn’t see her daughter’s vile core, pretend she didn’t see that the beautiful fruit was spoiled by worms.

Tears, hot and bitter, welled up in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. But when she held her daughter, how would she keep her revulsion from showing? How would she be able to hide her despair and feign affection? She couldn’t; she knew she couldn’t.

Hope threw aside the covers and climbed out of bed. She crossed to her half-open door, the linoleum floor cool against her bare feet. She peeked out at the deserted hallway and nurses’ station. She heard a woman’s weeping from down the hall, heard another’s comforting murmur.

The Vincent woman had lost her baby. Philip had shared that information with her earlier today, she supposed in the hope of making her thankful for their own baby’s good health. Instead, she had wished it was her own child who had been taken. If the Lord had chosen her baby, her problems would have been solved.

But the Pierron daughters were strong with The Darkness that beat inside them; the Pierron daughters never died.

She had to escape, she thought, frantic suddenly. She had to get out of this place and breathe fresh air; she needed to be away from the constant prying, the insufferable compassion, of the hospital staff. She had to find someone who would understand and help her.

The church. She could turn to the church. The priest would help her. He would understand.

And in the anonymity of the confessional, she would be safe. Her secret would be safe.

Whimpering with relief, Hope turned away from the door and moved blindly to her closet. She rifled through it, pulling out her street clothes, tugging them on as quickly as she could, fumbling in her haste. Throughout her life the Church had been her solace, her rock during times of turmoil and confusion. Surely this time would be no different. Surely the priest would know what she should do.

But what if, this time, the priest couldn’t help her? What would she do then?

Fear pumped through her, taking her breath, her ability to think, to act. She struggled to get control of her emotions; she couldn’t afford to fall apart now. If she did, The Darkness would have her.

Never. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Hope crossed to the phone and as quietly as she could, called a cab. That done, she collected her purse and tiptoed to the door. Luck was on her side—the nurses’ station was still empty. Smiling to herself, she ducked out of the room and went quickly to the elevator. She didn’t want Philip alerted to the fact she was leaving the hospital. He would try to stop her; the hospital staff would try to stop her. None of them understood.

As she had hoped, the elevator was unoccupied. It whisked her to the lobby; she stepped out and started for the double glass doors directly ahead. A security guard stood at the front desk, flirting with the receptionist. Neither spared her more than a glance.

Hope pushed through the doors and stepped out into the humid New Orleans night. Air, thick with moisture, enveloped her like a womb. She breathed deeply, grateful, so grateful, to be free.

She moved away from the building, out of its circle of light, and the dark swallowed her. Moonlight glistened on the wet pavement; tree branches, their leaves heavy with a recent rain, hung low, their loaded leaves splattering her as she walked beneath them.

A streetcar rumbled past; a youth darted across the avenue, shouting a greeting to another passing in a car. From the canopy of oak leaves above her came the sound of some small animal scurrying for deeper cover.

The cab drew to the curb. Hope slid inside. “St. Louis Cathedral,” she instructed, then settled against the worn seat. In hopes of catching the faithful either in anticipation of their sin or in repentance of it, the Jackson Square cathedral heard confessions into the night. She had always thought it ironic that New Orleans’s oldest, and to her mind, most awe-inspiring cathedral stood sentinel at the very heart of debauchery.

Hope clenched her hands in her lap. The cab smelled stale, like old cigarettes and mildew. The driver said little; his silence saved her having to rebuff him. She turned her face to the window and watched as the grand residences of uptown gave way to the high rises of downtown, then to the old-world architecture of the Vieux Carré, or French Quarter.

Within minutes, the driver drew the cab to a stop beside the cathedral. Hope asked him to wait, then stepped out into the night. She lifted her gaze to the church’s mighty spire, feeling a measure of relief already. St. Louis Cathedral stood watch over Jackson Square, just as a chaperon would over a pair of anxious teenagers, just as the Catholic church had always stood watch over the eternal souls of the faithful. Rebuilt twice from ashes and once from the rubble wrought by a hurricane, its rigid lines provided a stark contrast to the whimsical ironwork of the buildings adjacent to it. Hope had always thought of this church as a type of anchor, its rigidity balancing and securing the lives of the laissez bon temps roullé Creoles who had once inhabited the Vieux Carré.

Taking a deep breath, she hurried toward the church’s welcoming portal, her heels clicking on the cobblestone walkway. From the Mississippi River, located just beyond the square to the east, came the lonely call of a barge; from nearby Bourbon Street, she caught the strains of Dixieland jazz and raucous laughter.

As she entered the church, those sounds faded, leaving a silence that echoed, that reassured. A sense of calm, a feeling of serenity flowed over Hope. Her agitation, the desperation that had held her in its grip for days now, melted away. Here, The Darkness couldn’t touch her. Here, nestled in the arms of the church, she would find her answers.

A marble cistern stood inside the entrance. Hope dipped her fingers into the holy water. She crossed herself, and started for the confessionals that flanked each side of the sanctuary at the front.

She slipped into the first she came to and drew the curtain closed behind her. She knelt, facing the interior wall, and bowed her head. A moment later, the panel slid open. Obscured by a screen, she could make out the priest’s form, but not his features. Just as he could not make out hers.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

“What sins do you have to confess, my child?”

Hope twisted her fingers together, her heart thundering so hard it hurt to breathe. “Father, I…I’ve come to you under false pretenses. I’ve come not to confess my sins, but to seek your counsel. You see, I—” Her throat closed over the words, and she fought to clear it, fear and despair rising in her again, threatening to swallow her.

“I have nowhere else to turn, Father. No one to turn to. If you can’t help me, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll be lost.” Hope brought her hands to her face and wept into them. “Please, Father. Please help me.”

“Calm yourself, child. Of course I’ll help you. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Hope shuddered. “The women of my family are evil and wanton, Father. They’re sinners, they sell themselves, their bodies. It’s always been so in my family, we are cursed women.”

She swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “I escaped, but now I fear for my baby daughter’s eternal soul. I fear she, too, will grow up evil and wanton. I see The Darkness in her, Father, and I’m so afraid.”

For a moment, the priest said nothing. Then he began to speak, softly but with a strength and surety that filled Hope with calm.

“We are all in possession of the darkness, child. Eve offered Adam the apple, he took the Forbidden Fruit and Original Sin was born. Each of us come into the world tainted by that act of Original Sin. We are all unclean. But God sent His only son to die for us, for our sin. Christ is our promise of salvation.”

The priest shifted, Hope heard the rustle of his robes and the click of his rosary beads. “You must help your daughter. You must show her the right path. You must teach her to fight the Serpent.”

“But how, Father?” Hope leaned toward the partition. “How can I help her?”

“You’re her mother. You have the power to mold this child into a woman of high moral character. Only you. You show her the way, teach her right from wrong, holy from unclean. God has sent you this child as a test. Of your strength and of your faith. This child can be your glory or your defeat.”

Hope’s heart began to thunder, and suddenly her path—her purpose—was clear. It wasn’t the Lord who was testing her, it was The Darkness.

She curved her hands into fists, so tightly her nails dug into her palms. Let The Darkness test her, let it taunt and mock her. She wouldn’t lose to it; she wouldn’t let it have her daughter. She would stamp the Bad Seed out of her child, just as she had worked to stamp it out of herself.

This child could be her glory or her defeat.

Glory, she thought, determination rising like a tidal wave inside her. This child would be her Glory.

Part 2 Santos

Chapter 4

New Orleans, Louisiana 1979

Living in New Orleans’s French Quarter suited fifteenyear-old Victor Santos just fine. No place else he had lived was quite like it. Day and night, the Quarter vibrated with energy and excitement; he never lacked for something to do or someone to hang out with. He liked the sounds and the smells, he liked the old buildings whose cracked plaster walls were always damp, he liked the lush, hidden courtyards and the fanciful iron balconies.

But most of all, Santos—called that by everyone but his mother—liked the people. The Quarter was home to all ages, persuasions and colors, home to the good, the bad and the ugly. Even the crush who flocked to Bourbon Street at night—most of them dedicated party animals, the rest curiosity seekers come to ogle the outrageous—fascinated him.

His school counselors were always telling his mom that the Quarter was no place to raise a kid because of the bad element. Of course, they would lump her into that category, too, if they knew she was an exotic dancer and not the waitress she had told them she was.

As far as Santos was concerned, those counselors were a bunch of full-of-crap know-it-alls. As far as he was concerned, hookers, junkies and runaways had a lot more heart than no-good sons-of-bitches like his daddy. No, from what he had seen of life, the folks who’d had nothing but hard times and hurts didn’t have room inside them for hate.

Santos crossed Bourbon Street and shouted a greeting to Bubba, the guy who worked the door of Club 69, the place his mother danced nights.

“Hey, Santos,” the burly bouncer called back. “You got any smokes? I’m out.”

Santos laughed and lifted his hands, empty palms up. “Gave it up, man. Haven’t you heard? Those things’ll kill you.”

The man flipped Santos a friendly bird, then turned his attention to a couple of tourists who had stopped outside the club and were craning their necks to get a peek at the show.

Victor continued down Bourbon, then cut across to St. Peter, hoping to shave a few minutes off his walk. He had promised his mother he would pick up a couple shrimp po’boys on his way home.

His mouth started to water at the thought of the big, sloppy sandwiches, and he stepped up his pace, though not too much. August in New Orleans didn’t lend itself to hurrying. Although the sun had begun its descent more than an hour ago, the sidewalk was still hot enough to fry an egg. Heat emanated from the concrete in sweltering waves, and the air, heavy with the ninety-plus-percent humidity, could suffocate the overzealous. Just last week, a touristbuggy horse had fallen over dead in the street, a victim of August in New Orleans.

“Hey, Santos, baby,” a woman said from behind him. “Where you goin’ in such a hurry?”

He stopped, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Hey, Sugar. Going to the Central Grocery, then home. Mom’s waiting.” Until about six months ago, Sugar had danced at the club with his mother. She’d been forced to start working the streets full-time when her man had taken off, leaving her and their three kids.

“Your mama always did like them sandwiches. Bet you do, too, a big boy like yourself.” She laughed and patted his cheek. “You tell your mama I said hello. You tell her Brown Sugar’s doin’ okay.”

“I will. She’ll be glad to hear it.”

Santos watched her walk away, then shook his head and started off again. Sugar was an example of the kind of folks those do-gooder school counselors called a bad influence. The way he saw it, she was doing the best she could to take care of her family. The way he saw it, sometimes life didn’t offer anything better than a shit sandwich. When that happened, you had to eat it or starve.

Not that there weren’t some bad people in the Quarter. There were plenty; just like everyplace else. He figured folks came in three varieties: the haves, the have-nots and the want-to-haves. The way he saw it, the lines between these three groups were very clearly drawn. It was economics, pure and simple.

The haves were easy. They liked their lives, and as long as members of the other two groups stayed out of their way, they weren’t any bother at all. But the want-to-haves were trouble. They came from all walks of life, they grappled for money and power, they would do anything to anyone to get it; the want-to-haves burned in their gut to lord it over somebody else.

Santos considered himself a pretty tough kid, but he steered clear of that kind. Experience had taught him well. His daddy had been like that, always hungry for what he didn’t have, always yearning to lord it over somebody else, ready to raise his fist to somebody smaller or weaker. Like that would make him a big man.

His daddy. Santos curled his lips in distaste. He had nothing but bad memories of Samuel “Willy” Smith. The man had been pure oil-field trash, but too good to marry the “spic-squaw” girlfriend he had knocked up, too good to give their baby his name. He used to call Victor and his mama half-breed wetbacks and tell them they were no good.

Santos remembered feeling little but relief the morning the sheriff had come by their trailer to tell them Willy Smith had been killed—his throat slit from ear to ear—in a barroom fight. Every now and then, however, Santos did wonder about his old man—he wondered how he was enjoying hell.

Santos reached the grocery and went inside, grateful for the blast of cold air that hit him as he opened the door. He ordered the sandwiches, shot the breeze with the counter girl while he waited, and ten minutes later was back on the street, the po’boys and a couple bottles of Barq’s in a brown take-out sack.

He and his mother lived on Ursuline, in a small, secondfloor apartment. The place was clean, cheap and unairconditioned. They endured the summer months with two small window-units, one for each bedroom. Sometimes it was so hot in the kitchen and living room, they ate on their beds.

Santos reached their building, jogged up the one flight of stairs, then let himself into their apartment. “Mom,” he called. “I’m home.”

His mother stepped out of her bedroom, a brush in her hand, her features masked by the thick layer of makeup she wore to work. She had told him once that she liked wearing the makeup when she danced, because it made her feel as if it was somebody else up on the stage, as if it wasn’t really her the men were staring at. She had told him, too, that those guys, the ones that came to the club, liked her to look cheap. Like a whore, or something. It was part of their thrill. Santos thought it was really fucked-up. He wished his mother didn’t have to put up with it.

She shut the bedroom door behind her, careful not to let the cool air escape. “Hi, darlin’. How was your day?”

“Okay.” He fastened the safety chain. “I have the sandwiches.”

“Great. I’m starving.” She motioned toward her bedroom. “Let’s eat in here. It’s hot as hellfire today.”

He followed her and they sat down on the floor, then dug into the sandwiches. While they ate, Victor studied his mother. Lucia Santos was a beautiful woman. Half American Indian—Cherokee, she thought—and half Mexican, she had dark hair and eyes, and an exotic-looking, highcheekboned face. He had seen men look at her, when they’d been out together, just the two of them, her in her blue jeans, her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail, her face free of the makeup that exaggerated and hardened her features.

He took after her; everybody said so. And every time he looked in a mirror, he said a silent thank-you for it. He didn’t think he could have faced getting up every day, looking in the mirror and being reminded of Willy Smith.

“Mrs. Rosewood called today.”

One of those know-it-all do-gooder counselors. “Great,” Santos uttered. “Just what we need.”

She put down her po’boy and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “You start school next week. You need some things.”

His gut tightened. He knew what that meant. Tonight, tomorrow night or the next, she would come home with a “friend.” Suddenly, there would be plenty of money for clothes and doctor’s visits and book bags. He hated it. “I don’t need anything.”

“No?” She took another bite of her po’boy, chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long swallow of the root beer. “What about the two inches you’ve grown over the summer? Don’t you think your pants are going to be a little short?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He crushed the paper his po’boy had come wrapped in and shoved it into the empty take-out bag. “I’ve got some money saved from my job, I’ll get new clothes myself.”

“You also need to visit the dentist. And Mrs. Rosewood said your records show that you’re due for—”

“What does she know?” he interrupted, angry suddenly. He jumped to his feet and glared at his mother. “Why can’t she just leave us alone? She’s just an old busybody.”

Lucia frowned and followed him to his feet. She met his gaze evenly. “What’s the problem, Victor?”

“School’s a waste of time. I don’t see why I can’t just quit.”

“Because you can’t. And you won’t, not while I’m alive.” She narrowed her gaze, her expression fierce. “You need an education if you’re ever going to get out of this dump. You quit school and you’ll end up just like your daddy. You want that?”

Victor clenched his hands into fists. “That really sucks, Mom. I’m nothing like him, and you know it.”

“Then prove it,” she countered. “Stay in school.”

He flexed his fingers, frustrated. “I’m big enough to pass for sixteen. I could quit school and get a full-time job. We need the money.”

“We don’t need the money. We’re doing fine.”

“Right.”

At his sarcasm, she flushed, obviously angry. “What’s that supposed to mean? Huh?” She poked her index finger into his shoulder. “What do you want that you don’t have?”

He said nothing, just stared at his feet and the remnants of their meal, an ugly mess on the pieces of white butcher paper. Like this whole, fucking situation. Anger and helpless frustration balled in his chest until he thought he might explode with it.

“What?” she asked, poking him again, this time harder. “You want some high-priced stereo system? Or maybe you need some of those fancy, name-brand jeans or a color TV in your room?”

He lifted his head and met her eyes, the blood pumping furiously in his head, “Maybe what I want, maybe what I need, is a mother who doesn’t have to turn tricks every time she has to buy her son a new pair of shoes or take him to the doctor.”

She took an involuntary step back, as if he had slapped her, her face going white under her foundation and blush.

He held a hand out to her, contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” She took another step back from him, working to get control of herself. “How did you know about the…tricks?”

Santos dragged his hands through his hair, frustrated, wishing he had never started this. “Give me a break, Mom. I mean, I’m not blind. Or dumb. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve known for a long time.”

“I see.” She gazed at him another moment, then turned and crossed slowly to the one window in the small room. She stared out at the street below, her view partially obstructed by the small air conditioner. The seconds ticked past, seeming more like minutes. Still, she said nothing.

He took a step toward her, then stopped, cursing himself. Why hadn’t he held his tongue? Why hadn’t he just let her believe he didn’t know her little secret? He couldn’t take his words back now, and her silence hurt him more than one of his daddy’s blows.

“What did you expect?” he said, softly now. “Every time I needed something, you came home with a friend. He would stay an hour or two, then leave. Of course, we’d never see him again.”

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

A catch in his chest, he crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her. He pressed his face to her sweet-smelling hair. Tonight when she returned from work, it would reek of cigarettes and the dirty old men who had pawed at her. “Sorry for what?” he asked, choked.

“For being a…whore. You must think—”

“You’re not! I think you’re the greatest. I’m not…” His voice thickened, and he struggled for a moment to clear it. “I’m not ashamed of you. It’s just that I know how much you hate it. You’re always so quiet after. You always look so sad.”

He breathed deeply through his nose. “And I hate that you do it for me. I hate that I’m the reason why you let those guys…” His words trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice small and broken. “I didn’t want you to know about the tricks. I thought…” She shook her head. “This isn’t the kind of life I wanted you to have. I’m not the kind of mother you deserve.”

“Don’t say that.” He tightened his arms around her, wishing he could protect her, wishing he could take care of her. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wish you…if I quit school, you wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”

She turned and faced him, her eyes and cheeks wet with tears. “I would do anything for you, Victor. Don’t you see? You’re the best thing I’ve ever done. The best thing in my life.”

She cupped his face in her palms. “Promise me you’ll stay in school.” She tightened her grip, her gaze on his intense. “Promise me, Victor. It’s important.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll stay in school. I promise.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, but he saw that her mouth trembled. “You always keep your promises. You always have, ever since you were old enough to make them to me.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder how you can be so honorable, coming like you did from Willy and me.”

She made a move to lower her hands; he caught them. “I’ll take care of you someday,” he said fiercely. “You won’t have to put all that crap on your face, you won’t have to work the way you do now. I’ll take care of you,” he said again. “I give you my word on that.”

Chapter 5

“Victor, darlin’, I’m off.”

Santos tore his gaze from the small black-and-white TV on his dresser to glance at his mother. “See you.”

She hooked her purse strap over her shoulder. “You going to get up and come give your mama a kiss?” He made a face, and she laughed. “I know, you’re too grown-up for that now.”

She crossed to him, bent and planted a light kiss on the top of his head, then threaded her fingers through his hair. “You know the rules, right?”

He tipped his face up to hers and arched his eyebrows in exaggerated exasperation. “How could I not? You repeat them every night.”

“Don’t be a smart ass. Let’s hear ’em.”

“Put the chain on,” he said in the sassiest voice he could manage. “And don’t answer the door for anybody. Not even God.”

She rapped her knuckles against the top of his head. “And don’t leave the apartment. Except if it’s on fire.”

“Right.”

“Don’t you look at me that way.” She narrowed her eyes, all traces of amusement gone. “You think my rules are a big joke. But take it from me, there are some real creeps on the streets. And if the creeps don’t get you, the state will. Merry, from down at the club, lost her kid that way. Social Services found out she left him alone at night and took him away.”

“Yeah, but Merry’s a doper and her kid’s only six.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “It’s not going to happen, Mom. You worry too much.”

“Is that so, Mr. I’m-fifteen-and-know-everything?” Hands on hips, she leaned toward him. “When I was your age, I was damn cocky, too. I sure as hell never imagined I’d have to make a living by shaking my tits and ass for a roomful of strangers. I didn’t even know women like me existed.”

She shook her head, her expression sad suddenly, resigned. “That’s one of the things life teaches you, darlin’, one bad choice can screw up your entire life. Remember that the next time you think you know everything.”

Santos knew the mistake she was talking about—hooking up with Willy Smith, getting pregnant by him. Her family had disowned her, and Willy had taken to using her for a punching bag. Bad choice, all right. A real doozy.

He swallowed hard. “I’ll be careful, Mom.”

“You do that.” She touched his cheek with her fingertips, lightly, lovingly stroking. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, Victor.”

He opened his mouth to say the same to her, then feeling silly, he swallowed the words. “You won’t,” he said instead, covering her fingers with his own, squeezing them. “You’re stuck with me.”

She smiled and motioned with her head toward the front door. “I’ve got to go. You know how Milton is if I’m late.”

Santos nodded and followed her to the front door, watching as she walked down the hall. When she reached the top of the stairs, she looked back at him, smiled and waved. A lump in his throat, he returned her smile, then closed the door. He reached for the safety chain, then stopped, taken by the urge to run after her and give her the hug and kiss she had asked for earlier, taken by the sudden and overwhelming need to hold on to her, the way he hadn’t allowed himself to in a long time, to hold on to her and tell her he loved her.

What would he do if he lost her?

He opened the door and started into the hall, but caught himself short, feeling more than a little bit silly. He was too old to cling to his mother the way a baby would, too old to need her coddling and reassurance. He laughed to himself. All her talk of losing him, all her worries and warnings, had momentarily unnerved him. He laughed again. Next, she would have him believing in the bogeyman and the kid-eating monster in the closet.

With a snort of amusement at his own imagination, Santos fastened the chain, and made a beeline for his room. He dug his shoes out from under the bed, put them on, then sat to wait.

He checked his watch. He would give his mother a tenminute head start before he left to meet his buddies. He met them every night at the abandoned elementary school on Esplanade and Burgundy, at the northern edge of the Quarter.

His mother’s words filtered through his head, the ones about Social Services, about her fear of losing him, and he pushed them away. His mother worried too much; she treated him like a baby. He had been meeting his friends this way for the entire summer and weekend nights during the previous school year. He always made sure he beat his mother home; he, like all the kids, steered cleared of both the cops and trouble. And as he had promised his mother, he was always careful. He had never even come close to getting caught.

Exactly ten minutes later, Santos unlocked the door again and headed out into the hallway. Moments later, the hot New Orleans night enveloped him. He muttered an oath. Nine-thirty at night and it was still hot.

Santos brought a hand to the back of his already damp neck. That was the thing people didn’t get about New Orleans summers, the thing that made those long months nearly unbearable—it never cooled down. Sure, other places got hot during the summer, some got hotter. But those places got some relief when the sun set.

New Orleans remained at the boiling point, May through September. In August, they were all nothing more than human crawdaddies. The tourists he talked to acted so surprised by the heat. Invariably, they asked how he stood it. New Orleanians didn’t “stand” the heat, they just got used to it. To his mind, there was a difference.

Santos lifted his face to the black sky, and breathed deeply through his nose. The air may not have cooled, but in the last few hours it had changed, the Quarter with it. He found the difference both subtle and glaring—like the difference between natural light and neon, between the scent of flowers and perfume. Like the difference between saints and sinners.

Indeed, the shoppers and businesspeople had disappeared with the day, making way for the night people. Night people came in two varieties, those who lived on the fringe, and those who lived on the edge. Fringe people were people like his mother, ones who didn’t quite fit into the standard, all-American, Norman Rockwell mold, though they wished they did. Those who lived on the edge did so by choice, because they liked the life.

Music, bluesy and sad, trickled from an open balcony somewhere above him, from another the sounds of sex. Santos jogged past them, ducking down an alley, choosing the less-traveled streets, careful to avoid the paths his mother might choose, careful to avoid being seen by anyone who might report back to her.

From a corner restaurant came the clatter and clank of pots and pans, the enticing smell of boiling seafood. Santos passed behind the restaurant, then wrinkled his nose as he dodged a particularly ripe garbage bin. Nothing like a day or two in the heat to transform crabs and shrimp from enticing to sickening.

The school in sight now, he slowed his pace. It wouldn’t do to be seen running in this neighborhood—with the amount of poverty and crime here, the cops were always cruising the area, always on the lookout for a young male fleeing the scene.

Santos circled around to the back of the school. After making sure nobody was watching, he ducked behind a row of wildly overgrown oleander and sweet olive bushes. There, as he knew he would, he found a window propped open with a brick. He hoisted himself up to the ledge and swung inside. From deep within the building he heard the sound of laughter; his buddies had already arrived. He dropped to his feet.

A match flared. Startled, Santos swung around. A kid called Scout—so named because he was always on the lookout for cops, pushers, winos or anyone else who might intrude on the group—stood in the corner, his amused expression illuminated by the match’s flame.

“What gives?” Santos asked, frowning. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Scout lit a cigarette, then tossed the match. “Sorry, man. You’re late tonight.”

“I got hung up with my mother.”

“Drag.” Scout pulled on his cigarette, then blew out a stream of the acrid smoke. He indicated the length of iron pipe propped against the wall beside him. “Glad it was you. For a minute, I thought I was going to war. Got to protect our turf.”

And he would have, Santos knew. Most of the kids Santos hung with, including Scout, lived on the street full-time. They were runaways, either from their families or the foster-care system. A few, like Santos, were neighborhood kids who didn’t have adult supervision at night. They ranged in age from eleven to sixteen, and the group shrank and swelled in size on an almost daily basis. New runaways joined the group, others moved on or were caught and returned to wherever—or whomever—they had tried to escape. Santos and a handful of the others had been part of the group since its beginning.

“Where is everybody?” Santos asked.

“Homeroom. Lenny and Tish lifted a bag of crawfish from the back of a truck. They’re still hot. They were thirty minutes ago, anyway.”

Santos nodded. “You coming?”

“Nah. I’m going to stand watch for a while.”

Santos nodded again and started for the area they called homeroom. Because the school was so large, they had selected four rooms to be their regular meeting places and had given each a name—drama club, arts and crafts, sex ed. and homeroom.

Homeroom was located on the second floor at the end of the main hall. Santos made his way there, picking around rubble and weak spots in the flooring. As he expected, he found the group gathered around the bag of crawfish, laughing and talking as they shucked, sucked and generally made pigs of themselves on the stolen mud-bugs.

Razor, the oldest of the group, saw Santos first and motioned him in. Nicknamed Razor for obvious reasons, he had been on the street the longest of anyone in the group. He was a good guy, but he didn’t take any crap from anybody. Living on the street did that to a kid. Toughened him. Santos figured Razor wouldn’t be hanging out with them much longer. At sixteen, he was ready to move on.

“Nice score, Tish, Lenny.” Santos exchanged high-fives with the two teenagers, then took a seat on the floor.

Conversation flowed around him. Social Services had picked up Ben again and sent him back to his foster family; a pimp had cornered Claire and had tried to scare her into tricking for him; Doreen had caught Sam and Leah making out; and Tiger and Rick had left New Orleans, planning to hitch their way to the good life in southern California.

After a time, Santos noticed that there was a new girl with them tonight. She sat just outside their circle, joining in neither the talk nor the crawfish, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Santos nudged Scout, who had joined the group and taken the place on the floor next to him. He motioned the new girl. “Who’s that?”

The other boy followed his gaze. “Tina,” he said. “Claire brought her. She hasn’t said more than two words since she got here.”

“She new to the street? A runaway?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

No “think” about it, Santos decided, cocking his head slightly as he studied her. She had lost, alone, and scared to death written all over her. She kept her eyes downcast and repeatedly bit down on her lower lip, as if to keep it from trembling. Whatever she was running from, he would bet his meager summer earnings that it was pretty bad.

He felt for her, the way he did for all his friends. Over the years, they had told him stories that made his daddy’s beatings seem tame. Santos peeled a crawfish and popped the tail into his mouth. He tossed the head and shell onto a pile of others, and reached for another. Every time he heard a new kid’s story, he appreciated his life—and his mother—more.

He thought of the discussion he’d had with his mother earlier that day, remembered her shame at his knowing that she sometimes hooked. She just didn’t get it. She might not be Mrs. C from “Happy Days,” but she loved him. They might not have much, but they had each other. And his friends made him realize that in this mostly rotten world, having someone, having love, was something special, something worth holding on to.

The crawfish gone, the group began to shift, some splitting into smaller groups, some of the kids heading out to the streets, some crashing. Tina didn’t move; she sat as if frozen to the spot. Frozen by fear, no doubt. By uncertainty.

Santos stood and made his way across the room to her.

“Hi,” he murmured, shooting her an easy smile. “I’m San tos.”

She lifted her gaze to his, then dropped it once more. “Hi.”

Her voice was soft and sweet and scared. Too soft, too sweet for a girl on the streets. It would harden up fast, just as she would. If she was going to survive. He sat down next to her, though careful to leave plenty of distance between them. “Your name’s Tina. Right?”

She nodded but offered nothing more.

“Scout says Claire brought you in.” She nodded again. “First thing you’ll learn about us,” he said, smiling, “is Scout knows everything. The second thing is, we’re a good group. We watch out for each other.”

When she still didn’t look up, he figured she would rather be alone. He started to his feet. “If you get in a jam, let me know. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

She lifted her face, and he saw that her eyes and cheeks were wet. He saw, too, that she was pretty, with light brown hair and big blue eyes. He guessed her to be his age, maybe a little older.

“Th…thank you,” she whispered.

“No problem.” He smiled again. “I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!”

Santos stopped and met her gaze.

“I—” Her throat closed over the words, and he saw her struggle to clear it. “I don’t know where to…go. I don’t know…what I should do now. Can you…help me?”

“I’ll try,” Santos said, though he doubted he could give her what she really wanted—a safe place to sleep, freedom from fear. He sat back down. “Where do you want to go, Tina?”

“Home,” she whispered, her eyes filling. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, fighting the tears. “But I can’t.”

He understood. He pursed his lips in thought. “Where are you from?”

“Algiers. My mother and—”

The scream of a police siren ripped through the night, stealing her words, punctuating the quiet like an obscenity.

“Oh, my God!” Tina leaped to her feet. She looked wildly around her, the way a trapped animal would, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time.

Santos followed her to her feet. “Hey, Tina…chill. It’s okay. It’s just—”

A second siren followed the first, then another after that. The squad cars passed close to the building, flashes of redand-white light penetrated the darkness, squeezing through cracks and crannies, creating a weird, frightening kaleidoscope. It was as if a dozen cop cars had descended directly on top of them.

“No!” Tina screamed, covering her ears. “No!”

“It’s okay…Tina—” Santos put his hand on her arm, and she whirled to face him, her face a mask of horror. In the next instant, she tore free of his grasp and ran for the door. Santos ran after her, catching her a moment before she reached it. He put his arms around her and held her tightly.

Hysterical, she fought him, kicking and crying, pummeling him with her fists. “Don’t! You have to let me go! You have to!”

“You’ll hurt yourself.” Santos dodged her blows as best he could, wincing as her fist caught him in the side of the neck. “Dammit, Tina, the stairs are—”

“They’re coming…he sent them! He—”

“He who?” Santos got a hold of her upper arms and shook her. “Tina, nobody’s coming. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Listen, they’re gone, the sirens are gone.”

She crumpled against him, sobbing, shaking so badly he thought she was having convulsions. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand.” She curled her fingers into his T-shirt. “He’ll send them…he said he would.”

After a while she quieted, then totally spent, went limp in Santos’s arms. He led her to a corner, to a mattress shoved against the wall. She sank onto it, curling into a ball of despair.

Santos sat next to her, his knees drawn to his chest. “You want to talk about it?”

Although she remained silent for a long time, something about her breathing, about the way she caught her breath every so often, as if preparing to speak, made him think she wanted to. Finally, she did.

“I thought…they were coming for me,” she said dully, her voice drained of everything but despair. “I thought he had sent them.”

“The cops? You thought the cops were coming for you?”

She nodded and curled herself into a tighter ball.

“But why?” Santos murmured, almost to himself. “You thought he sent them. Who?”

“My stepfather. He’s a cop.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she hugged herself tighter. “He told me if I ever…tried to get away from him, he would find me. He said he would find me and…”

She let the last trail off and Santos could only imagine what the man had promised he would do to her. Judging by her fear, it had been bad.

Even worse than what he had probably already been doing to her. The bastard.

Santos laced his fingers together. “I live with my mom. She’s pretty cool, but my dad was a real prick. He used to beat me. He’s dead now.” Tina didn’t say she was sorry; because she knew he wasn’t. Kids who had lived through hell understood each other without having to be told. “I guess your stepdad’s a real prick, too.”

“I hate him,” she said fiercely, her voice choked with tears. “He…hurts me. He…touches me.”

Santos’s gut tightened. “So, you ran away.”

“It was either that or kill myself.” She pulled herself into a sitting position and looked at Santos. He saw by the expression in her eyes that she meant it, that she had considered death an avenue of escape. “I didn’t have the guts.”

“Did you tell anyone about him?”

“My mother.” Tina tipped up her chin. “She didn’t believe me. She called me a liar and a…a slut.”

Santos swore. He wasn’t surprised by her story; he had heard it before. “How about a teacher, a neighbor, or someone?”

“He’s a cop, remember? A real top cop, too.” She bit down hard on her bottom lip. “Who would believe me? My own mother didn’t.”

Santos squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She looked away. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the guts to take those pills. I had them in my hand, but I couldn’t do it.”

“Don’t say that. I’m glad you didn’t.” She met his eyes, and he forced a smile. “It’s going to be okay, Tina.”

“Yeah, right. It’s going to be okay. I have no money, no place to go.” She started to cry again and brought her hands to her face. “I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “What am I going to do?”

Santos didn’t know, so he comforted the only way he knew how. He put his arms around her and held her for a long time, until she had cried all she could, until the room grew quiet as, one by one, others of the group left for the places they called home. Still, he held her, though he was aware of time passing. His mother would be home soon. When she found him gone, he would be dead meat.

Santos made a sound of regret and drew away from her. “Tina, I have to go. I—”

“Don’t leave me!” She clutched at him. “I’m so scared, stay a little longer. Please, Santos.” She buried her face against his chest. “Don’t go yet.”

Santos sighed. He couldn’t leave her. She had no one, no place to go. His mother would have to understand. And she would—after she killed him.

They talked. Santos told her about his life, about his mother and father, about school and living in the Quarter. She told him about her real father, about how much she had loved him and how he had died.

Santos heard the pain in her voice when she spoke of her father, he heard the longing. For the first time, he thought of what it must be like to lose someone you love, how much it must hurt. He had been so relieved that his father was gone, he had never considered what it would have been like if it had been his mother taken from him.

It would have been hell. He doubted he could have gone on.

They talked longer, sharing their dreams, their hopes for the future. Finally, as exhaustion tugged at them both, he drew completely away from her. He searched her expression. “I have to go, Tina. My mother’s going to kill me.”

Tina whitened with fear, but nodded bravely. “I know. You have to go.”

“I’ll tell her about you,” he said, catching Tina’s hands. “I’ll ask her if you can bunk in with us for a while. I promise I will.”

A cry escaped her lips, and he cupped her face with his hands. “Wait here. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He tightened his fingers. “I promise. I’ll come back for you tomorrow.”

He bent and kissed her. She made a sound of surprise. It mirrored his own. He pulled away, gazed into her blue eyes, then kissed her again, this time deeply, eagerly. His chest grew tight, his breath short. Arousal kicked him in the gut.

She slipped her arms around his neck; she pressed against him. “Stay with me. Please. Don’t leave me.”

Santos thought for a moment of doing just that. He was already late, already in the biggest trouble of his life.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” he’d heard his mother say just that night. She would think she had. She might have already called the cops, might have gone out to look for him herself.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I want to, but I can’t.”

He pressed his mouth to hers, then freed himself from her arms and stood. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “I promise, Tina. I’ll be back.”

Chapter 6

Santos passed a shop that had a neon clock hung in the front window. Chartreuse light spilled through the glass, staining the sidewalk and his skin an eerie yellow-green. The clock registered just after 4:00 A.M.

He was a dead man.

Unlike earlier that night, Santos didn’t bother with stealth. He took the fastest, most direct route home, alternating between a jog and a flat-out run. Even the streets that were normally well-populated were deserted.

As he ran, he thought of his mother’s fury and of how he was going to convince her to let Tina bunk in with them, especially in light of his behavior. And he thought of Tina’s mouth against his, of her fear and the way she had begged him to stay with her. He flexed his fingers, frustrated, torn between what he had done and what he could have done.

He should have brought her home with him. He could have insisted his mother let Tina stay. If that hadn’t worked, he could have pleaded with his mother. If Lucia Santos was anything, she was a soft touch. One look into Tina’s desperate, frightened eyes, and his mother would have caved.

His steps faltered and he thought of going back, then decided against it. It was nearly dawn already; Tina would be safe at the school. He would smooth things over with his mother, then go back for her in the morning.

He darted down an alley off of Dauphine Street. The cutthrough dumped him out onto Ursuline, two blocks from his home. Up ahead, police lights shattered the darkness. Three squad cars and an ambulance, their lights flashing, were stationed in front of a building down the block. One near his.

His steps faltered; he narrowed his eyes. Not just near his apartment building, Santos realized. His building; his home.

He started to run.

The police had cordoned off the area. Despite the ungodly hour, a small crowd had gathered. He saw an old lady from the first floor. “What’s going on?” he asked, out of breath, his heart thundering.

“Don’t know.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Somebody’s dead. Murdered, I think.”

“Who?” He sucked in a deep breath, willing his heart to slow, frightened by the panic tugging at him.

She shrugged and lit a cigarette, squinting against the smoke. “Don’t now. Maybe nobody.”

Santos turned away from the woman. He searched the assembled crowd for his mother, the panic inside him growing. She wasn’t here.

That didn’t mean anything, he told himself, struggling to stay calm, struggling against the black fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Other of his neighbors were missing, probably asleep in their apartments. She could have brought a “friend” home with her; she could be out searching for him.

“Merry lost her kid. Social Services found out she left him alone nights.”

This could be about him. His mother could have called the cops and reported him missing.

Then why the ambulance?

Santos shook his head, feeling light-headed suddenly, feeling like he might puke. He had to see her; he had to make sure she was all right. Even as he told himself she was, he pushed through the crowd, ducked under the police line and started for the building’s front entrance.

“Hey, kid.”

Santos turned. One of the police officers strode toward him. Santos could tell by the cop’s expression—and by the way his right hand hovered over his revolver—that he meant business. “Somebody’s dead,” the old woman had said. “Murdered, I think.”

“Yeah, you.” The cop pointed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Inside.” Santos swallowed, his mouth so dry it felt as if he had been eating dirt. “I live here.”

“That so?” The cop looked him over.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his damp palms on his thighs. “My mom’s waiting. I’m late, and she’s…she’s probably pretty worried.”

Another officer came up to stand beside the first. He looked too young to be wearing a badge, let alone carry a gun. He had a face that had never lost all its baby fat; his blue eyes were kind.

“You got a name?” the first one asked.

Santos moved his gaze from one to the other. “Victor Santos.”

The cops exchanged glances. “Santos?”

He nodded, his stomach turning.

“Where’ve you been tonight, Victor?”

“Hanging out with friends. I…I snuck out while my mom was at work. I promised I wouldn’t, but—” Santos took another deep breath, feeling as if his world was crashing in on him. “Have a heart. I mean, she’s probably worried sick.”

“You got ID, Victor?”

He shook his head. “No…but my mother can—”

“How old are you, Victor?”

“Fifteen.” He swallowed hard, thinking again of his mother’s warning about Social Services. He started to shake. “Look, don’t blame her. She’s very careful, a really good mother. It’s my fault.” He looked pleadingly at the officer with the kind eyes. “I snuck out. She’s going to kick my butt when I get in there. Please don’t call Social Services.”

The cops looked at each other again. “Calm down, Victor,” the baby-faced officer said, looking uncomfortable. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“What do you mean?” Santos looked from one to the other again, panic rising like a tidal wave inside him. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” He grabbed the officer’s sleeve. “Why are you guys here?”

The young officer pried Santos’s fingers loose, then put an arm around his shoulders. He steered him toward one of the squad cars, speaking in a calm voice, one meant to soothe. “Have a seat over here, Victor, and I’ll call someone to come speak with you.”

“But my mother—”

“Don’t worry about that right now.” They reached the car and the cop opened the rear door. “You need to sit here for a few minutes and I’ll call a friend of mine—”

“No!” Santos broke away from the man and started to walk away. “I’m going home. I’m going to see my mother.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” The officer clamped a hand over Santos’s shoulder, his voice now devoid of sympathy and discomfort. Suddenly, he seemed plenty old enough for both the badge and the gun. “You stay here until I tell you otherwise. You got that, Victor?”

Santos stared at the officer in horror. His mother. Where was his mother?

The crowd made a noise then, a collective gasp, a murmur of appreciation that their wait was finally over, that finally their curiosity would be appeased. The sound spilled over Santos’s nerve endings like acid.

He swung toward the building’s entrance, toward the cops and paramedics emerging from the entrance. He stared at the stretcher, at the body obscured by a white sheet.

Somebody was dead.

Murdered.

Santos tore away from the police officer’s grasp and ran toward the building, toward the stretcher and the lifeless form it carried.

Santos made it past the barricade before the officer caught him and held him back. Santos fought him; freed himself. He reached the stretcher; he ripped away the sheet.

The cops grabbed him from behind and dragged him back. But not before he saw the blood, not before he saw the victim’s face, frozen into a twisted mask of death.

His mother’s face. His mother’s blood.

A cry of pain sawed through the night, shattering it. His cry, Santos realized, clutching his middle. His mother. Dead. Murdered.

His stomach heaved. He doubled over and puked on the baby-faced officer’s shiny black shoes.

Chapter 7

Santos sat in the N.O.P.D. Homicide Division’s waiting

area, staring at the scarred linoleum floor beneath his feet.

Shock and grief warred inside him, creating a kind of ach ing numbness, a pain so great he could no longer feel.

His mother was dead. Brutally murdered seven days ago. Stabbed sixteen times—in her chest and throat, her abdomen and back, in places too vile to be printed in the newspaper.

He bit down on the sound of grief that rushed to his lips, bit down so hard his teeth and jaw ached. The linoleum swam before his eyes. He fought off the tears, although in the last week he had learned that fighting the visible signs of his grief neither conquered nor lessened the pain.

Around him a sort of controlled chaos reigned. Officers came and went, a variety of perps in tow; family members of both victims and criminals milled about the waiting area; and lawyers, like sharks smelling blood, seemed to be everywhere at once. The noise level stayed at a dull, busy roar, punctuated by the occasional wail of anger or grief. Above it all, the desk sergeant’s booming voice drilled directions, be it to civilians or fellow officers. Any moment, Santos expected to hear him shout, “Okay kid, Detective Patterson will see you now.”

Santos had been through this before. He and Patterson were becoming big friends. Right. Santos flexed his fingers, the urge to hit someone or something—preferably Patterson’s arrogant mug—barreling through him.

From both the Times Picayune and the State’s Item, he had learned the details of the murder. They had described where and how Lucia Santos had been stabbed. They had detailed the events of the last night of her life—she had gone to work at Club 69, where she danced nights; she had picked up a john, who had come home with her; she had been killed after intercourse. They had found a half-eaten apple beside the bed.

They had called her a prostitute. They had speculated that she had been killed by the john.

After Santos had read the story, he’d thrown up. Then he had gotten angry. Something about the tiny articles—less than three paragraphs each—had had an “Oh, well,” quality to them. “Just another dead hooker. Who gives a shit?”

He had called the papers, called the reporters who had written that. His mother was not a prostitute, he had told the man. She was an exotic dancer. She’d been his mother. He had loved her.

“Sorry for your loss, kid,” they had both said. “But I write ’em as I see ’em.”

The police hadn’t been any better. He had called. At first they had been kind, if condescending. They had patiently explained how the system worked. They had nothing new; they were doing their best. They had even questioned him; they had checked out his alibi. Then they had blown him off, same as they would a pesky insect.

Don’t call us, they had all but said. We’ll call you.

Santos would be damned if he would let them do that to him; he sure as hell wouldn’t allow them to do that to his mother. Just because they thought she was nothing but another dead hooker.

He had called them every day—at least once. He had stopped by the station. Now, after a week of taking his calls and visits, they were less kind, less patient. No leads, no lucky breaks. On to a new victim.

Her body was barely in the ground, and they had closed the case. They hadn’t told him that, but Santos knew it to be true. Some things didn’t have to be spoken to be real.

Who cared about a nobody hooker?

Who gave a shit?

Santos dropped his head into his hands, his mother’s image filling his head. He pictured her the way she had looked that last time he’d seen her. With his mind’s eye could see her looking over her shoulder at him, smiling, waving goodbye.

He hadn’t kissed her goodbye. He hadn’t told her he loved her. He had thought himself too grown-up for that.

His eyes burned, and he pressed his lips tightly together. He kept his tears at bay, but the image in his head changed, shifted, becoming the nightmare images he awoke from every night, awoke from bathed in sweat, tears on his cheeks. Slasher-flick images of his mother and her attacker; his mother calling out for her son, begging Santos to come help her. And then he saw his mother as she had been when he’d ripped away the white sheet.

She had cried out for him; he hadn’t been there for her. He had laughed at her fears. He had done what he wanted to, without concern for her feelings. Without concern for her safety.

And now she was dead.

Guilt clawed at him. He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes. She had been with that john because of him—because he needed school clothes and expensive doctor visits. She was dead because he hadn’t been there to save her.

Had her last thoughts been of him? he wondered for what seemed like the millionth time. Had she been angry with him? Disappointed? Tears lodged in his throat, choking him. Why had he disobeyed her? Why had he stayed so late with Tina?

He hadn’t remembered Tina until two days later and only then because the police had made him recount every detail of the night his mother had been murdered. They hadn’t found her, but several of the other kids had verified his alibi.

Too caught up in his own pain, he had wondered only fleetingly what had happened to the girl, wondered if she had gone home and what she had thought when he hadn’t returned for her. Those wonderings always dissolved into his own guilt and shame. His own pain.

If he had been home, his mother would be alive.

He knew it, deep down in his gut. It was his fault his mother was dead.

“You okay, Victor?”

Santos looked up into the kind eyes of the baby-faced officer from the other night. Jacobs, his badge said. The man had been more than decent to him, he had gone beyond his duty as an officer to try to comfort him. Santos’s vision blurred; he tried to speak but couldn’t.

The cop put his hand on his shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Victor. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Santos fisted his fingers, fighting for control. “Find her killer.”

The man’s face registered regret. “I’m sorry. We’re trying.”

“Right. Tell me another one.”

Officer Jacobs ignored his sarcasm. “I know how tough this must be for you.”

“Do you?” Santos asked, helpless anger rising in him. “Was your mother brutally murdered? Was her murder all but ignored? Treated like nothing but a…a two-bit, pagesix news item?” Santos’s voice thickened with grief. “And did you know in your heart that you could have prevented her death, if only…if only you had been home. If only you hadn’t been—”

“Whoa, Victor. Hold it.” Jacobs sat beside him. “What do you mean, you could have prevented it?”

“What do you think I mean?” Santos clenched his hands harder, his eyes and throat burning with unshed tears. “If I’d been home…maybe the guy wouldn’t have done it. Maybe my being there would have scared him away. Or, I could have fought him. I could have helped her, I know I—”

“You could have gotten killed, too. You probably would have.” The cop looked him straight in the eyes. “Listen to me, Victor. This man, whoever he is, is a vicious killer. The kind not likely to be scared off by a boy. This was not a random act of violence. He came home with your mother, planning to kill her. He’s smart. We know that because he didn’t leave any evidence. Because he made sure he wasn’t seen. Our guess is, he’s done this before. If you had been there, he would have adjusted his plan to include killing you. Those are the facts, Victor. Ugly as they are.”

“But, I could have—”

“No. You couldn’t. If you had been in that apartment, you’d be dead. Period.”

“At least I would have been there, at least I could have tried to help her. At least she would have known that I…that I—” His voice broke, and embarrassed, he looked away.

“She knew you loved her, Victor. And she wouldn’t have wanted you dead.” He patted Santos’s clenched hands. “Let’s go talk to Detective Patterson. Maybe there’s something new.”

“I doubt it. All I’ve gotten from him is the runaround.”

Today was no different. More runaround. More bullshit. Santos stared at the detective, fury rampaging through him. He longed to lunge at the man. It would feel good, even though the burly officer would probably have him on his knees and cuffed before he landed the first blow.

But if he did manage to get in just one blow, it would be worth it, Santos thought, itching to try. It would be worth any amount of pain or punishment, if he could erase the man’s arrogant, disinterested expression for just one moment.

“Look,” Patterson was saying, “I know she was important to you, but I have other, more pressing cases. If we find anything, we’ll act on it.”

Santos jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. “You son of a bitch, you’re not even trying. The only way you’re going to get something, is if the killer waltzes in here and confesses.”

The detective folded his arms across his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “It happens.”

Jacobs put his hand on Santos’s arm, as if sensing how close to violence he was, then shot his fellow officer a narrow-eyed glance. “Victor, we are trying. I promise you. But there’s nothing for us to go on. I told you, this guy was smart.”

“So you’re just going to let him go free? He’s out there. Don’t you care, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, it does. I hate it. And so does Patterson. But all we can do is follow the leads we have and wait.”

Santos shook his head. “Wait? What do you—”

“He’ll do it again,” Patterson interrupted dismissively, returning to the seat behind his desk. “He’ll do it again, and maybe he’ll make a mistake. And then we’ll get him.”

Santos stared at the detective, disgust and hatred roiling inside him. “Why bust your asses on this, the guy’s only killing hookers. Right?” He fisted his fingers. “You think she was nothing. You think she was just a nobody hooker, so her murder doesn’t matter. Well, it does matter.” Santos took a step toward Patterson’s desk. “She was my mother, you bastard. I care. I give a shit.”

“Victor—” Jacobs caught his arm “—come on. I’ll buy you a Coke.”

Santos jerked his arm free of the cop’s grasp, not taking his gaze from Patterson’s. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to find out who did this. Do you understand? I’m going to find out who killed my mother, and I’m going to make him pay.”

The detective made a sound of annoyed exasperation. “What can you do, Victor? You’re a kid.” He shook his head. “You’ll end up getting yourself killed. Leave the police work to us.”

Santos bristled at both the man’s words and tone. “I would leave it to you, if you were doing anything.”

The detective’s jaw tightened, all traces of understanding gone from his expression. “Look, I’ve had it with you. We’re doing all we can, now beat it. I’ve got work to.”

“No problem, Detective.” Santos took a step closer to the officer’s desk, feeling like his equal, no longer intimidated by the man’s size, his position. The feeling was heady, empowering. Suddenly, he understood what it was to be a man instead of a boy. “But remember this, I don’t know how or when, but I’m going to find the bastard who killed her, and I’m going to make him pay.” He placed his hands on the desk, his gaze still unflinching on the other man’s. “And that’s a promise, Detective Patterson.”

Part 3 Glory

Chapter 8

New Orleans, Louisiana 1974

To seven-year-old Glory Alexandra St. Germaine, the world was both a magical and frightening place. A place filled with everything a girl could want: beautiful dresses with lace, ribbons and bows; fine dolls with silky hair that she could brush; riding lessons and her own pony; real china tea sets for the parties she gave in the gazebo, and anything else she might point to and say she desired.

Her daddy was a part of that world, the most magical and wonderful thing of all. When she was with him, she was certain nothing ugly or unhappy could touch her. With her daddy, she felt safe and so special—like she was the most special girl ever. He called her his precious poppet, and although she thought the name too babyish for a soonto-be third-grader and complained whenever he called her that in front of other people, secretly she liked it.

Her mother never called her by anything but her given names.

Glory shifted on the hard wooden chair, her bottom numb from sitting so long in the corner. Her corner. The bad-girl corner.

Glory sighed and stubbed the toe of her mary jane against the gleaming wooden floor, careful not to make a scuff. Her mother would inspect the area after releasing Glory from her punishment, just to make sure she hadn’t been up to mischief during her penance. After all, her time in the corner was to be spent on prayer and self-reflection. Her mother had told her that at least a million times. “Glory Alexandra St. Germaine,” her mother would say, “you sit in that corner and think about what you’ve done. You sit there and think about what the Lord expects from His good little girls.”

Glory sighed again. Other mothers called their daughters sweetheart or darling or love. She had heard them. Glory drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory, trying to recall even one time her mother had called her by one of those sweet names.

As always, she drew a blank.

Because her mother didn’t love her.

Glory brought her knees to her chest and laid her head against them. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close out her thoughts as easily, wishing she could shut out the truth. But she couldn’t, and her thoughts made her feel afraid. And sad. They changed her world from a wonderful, magical place, to one that was dark and confusing. The one that frightened.

Many times she had tried to reassure herself that, of course, her mother loved her. Hope St. Germaine was simply a different kind of mama, one who didn’t like to hold or be held, one who believed discipline was more important than affection.

But Glory didn’t believe her own assurances, deep in her heart she knew what was true, no matter how much it hurt.

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked against them. Why didn’t her mother love her? What had she done to displease her? She tried to be a good girl, she tried to be everything her mother wanted her to be. But, somehow, no matter how hard she tried, she always fell short. She either laughed too loudly or too much. She ran when her mother wanted her to walk, sang when her mother wanted prayer. Even when pleasing other people, she disappointed her mother.

Glory sighed again. Her mother thought wanting others to like her, letting them do things for her, was wicked. But Glory didn’t try to do that. With others, she got her way with nothing more than a smile; with others, she won affection without even trying.

Glory dropped her feet to the floor, longing to get off her chair and run and play. She loved to laugh. She loved to sing and dance and skip, her hair flying behind her. Mama said showing off that way was wicked, too. She said that wanting to be the center of attention was not what the Lord expected of His children.

Glory tried so hard to remember that, but sometimes she forgot. Like today. She squeezed her fingers into fists. Why couldn’t she remember, the way her mama wanted her to?

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away. At least her mother would be up to collect her soon. She could see by the gathering shadows that it was getting near dinnertime, and her mama’s punishments always ended in time for Glory to take part in the evening meal.

Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and she rubbed it, her mouth watering for the toasted cheese sandwiches Cook had prepared for lunch. The sandwiches she had missed because of her bad, wicked behavior.

“Mama,” Glory called. “Please, may I come out? I’ll be good, I promise.”

Silence answered her. She bit down on her lip, so hungry her tummy hurt. She longed to suck on a finger, but her mother had caught her at that once and punished her again. Glory wrapped her arms around herself, struggling to deny the urge. Unclean, she reminded herself. Sucking on flesh was wicked, unclean behavior.

She heard the key in the lock and turned expectantly. “Mama?”

“No, precious. It’s Daddy.”

“Daddy!” She flew out of the chair and raced toward him. With her father, she didn’t have to ask permission to leave her corner. With her father she didn’t have to apologize or explain what she had learned during her penance. Her daddy always loved her, no matter what.

He swung her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She hugged him just as tightly, feeling as if the day had just begun, sunny and full of promise.

When he set her away from him, she knew by his expression that tonight she would hear her parents’ raised voices. Her father would call her mother too harsh, she would call him lenient. Her mother said that if left to him, Glory would grow up evil and wanton.

Her parents’ fights always ended the same way—with absolute silence. Once, Glory had crept down the hall and listened at their bedroom door. She had heard her father groaning, as if he were in great pain. She had heard her mother’s breathless laugh. The sound had been triumphant and had seemed full of power.

Something inside the bedroom had fallen, hitting the floor with a crash. Terrified, Glory had scurried back to her own room, climbed onto her bed and under the covers, drawing them tightly over her head.

Breathing hard, heart thundering, she had waited—for her mother to come and punish her; for the morning when she would learn that her daddy was hurt or dead. What would she do if she lost her daddy? she had wondered. How could she live without him?

She couldn’t, Glory had realized. She would die herself.

She hadn’t slept for the rest of that night, the fears roiling inside her, colliding, stealing everything but her ability to cry.

“Precious?” Her father tipped her face up to his, his expression concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Tears flooded her eyes, and she hung her head. “But I…I was bad, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond, but when she peeked up at him, she saw that his throat was working, as if he wanted to say something. She lowered her eyes once more. “I picked some flowers from the garden and gave them to Mr. Riley. He’s so nice to me, and I wanted to make him smile. He looks so sad sometimes. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

Her father squatted in front of her and tipped her chin up. “It’s all right, precious. We have plenty of flowers in the garden. And it’s good to want people to be happy. I told your mommy that you can pick as many as you like and give them to whomever you like. She just didn’t know.” His mouth tightened. “Do you understand, Glory?”

“Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

And she did, because they had been through this many times before. But it was her father who didn’t understand. If she did as he said she could, whether it was picking the flowers, or running down the church steps after mass, or playing hide-and-seek without permission, her mother wouldn’t punish her, but she would still look at her in that way. The way that made Glory feel ugly and bad. The way that made her want to curl up and die for shame.

Glory shuddered. She couldn’t bear that look from her mother, it was worse, much worse, than any amount of time in her corner, any amount of physical reproach.

So, despite her father’s assurances, she wouldn’t pick flowers for Mr. Riley or anybody else—until she forgot again and acted without thinking first.

“I have an idea,” her father said suddenly. “How about going to dinner at the hotel tonight? We’ll go to the Renaissance Room.”

Glory could hardly believe her ears. Every Sunday after mass, for as long as she could remember, her father took her down to the French Market for beignets and café au lait. Just the two of them. Afterward, they went to the St. Charles, and he walked her through, explaining every aspect of the workings of the hotel to her, letting her spotcheck the café dining room, pretending not to notice when she sneaked nuts from behind the bar or chocolate mints from the cleaning carts.

But he had never taken her to the Renaissance Room, the hotel’s five-star restaurant. Her mother said she wasn’t old enough, that she was too ill-mannered for the elegant restaurant.

“The Renaissance Room?” Glory repeated. “Could we really?”

He tapped the end of her nose. “We really could.”

Glory remembered her mother, and her spirits sank a bit. Visiting the hotel wasn’t nearly so fun with her mother. When her mother accompanied them, Glory had to be quiet, as good girls are seen and not heard. She had to concentrate on her table manners, remembering to sip and nibble and use her napkin often. When her mother accompanied them, the usually friendly hotel staff was stiff and solemn; they never winked at her or gave her treats.

Glory bowed her head. “Mama says I’m too young for the Renaissance Room.”

“We won’t invite her,” he said, tilting her face back up to his. “It’ll be just you and me.” He grinned. “But remember, you’ll have to wear a dress. And your good shoes, the ones that pinch.”

Glory didn’t care if she had to wear mousetraps on her feet, she still wanted to go. She threw her arms around her father, unable to suppress her excitement. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you!”

Glory did, indeed, wear the shoes that pinched. She and her father had only just arrived at the hotel, and already her toes hurt. Ignoring the discomfort, she gazed up at the St. Charles’s balconied facade, her chest tight with a combination of pride and awe. Glory loved the St. Charles, everything about it, from the old, paneled elevators that creaked as they took passengers up to the thirteen guest floors, to the constant flow of people moving through the lobby, to the way it always smelled, of furniture polish and flowers.

Everyone here liked her. Here she could laugh and skip and have as many yummy minty chocolates as she wanted; here she could roam about at will, without worry of a scolding.

And, too, she loved the hotel because it was completely her father’s. Everything here had been touched by him, and in a strange way, to her, bore his resemblance. She felt safe in the hotel, as if her father’s arms were wrapped protectively around her.

Sometimes Glory thought that as much as she and her father loved the St. Charles, her mother hated it. Because she had no influence here, no say in how Philip ran the hotel. On a couple of occasions, Glory had heard her mother make a suggestion concerning the hotel, and Philip had responded sharply, in a way Glory never heard him speak to his wife.

The valet rushed over and opened her car door. He smiled. “Hello, Miss Glory. How are you tonight?”

She returned his smile, feeling very much like a grown-up lady. “Very good, thank you.”

Her father came around the car and handed the valet his keys. “We’ll be a couple hours, Eric.” Her father took her hand. “Ready, poppet?”

She nodded and they crossed the sidewalk to the hotel’s grand, leaded-glass doors. The doorman greeted Glory with a wide grin. “Evening, Miss St. Germaine. It’s nice to see you again.”

She returned his greeting, acting as adult as she knew how. “Thank you, Edward. It’s nice to see you again, too. We’ve come for dinner.” She lowered her voice reverently. “We’re going to the Renaissance Room.”

“Very good.” He opened the door for them. “I hear the strawberry sundae is excellent tonight.” He winked at her, and she giggled.

Her father laced their fingers and together they stepped into the St. Charles’s sweeping front lobby. As always, her first moment in the hotel took her breath away. It was so beautiful, so grand. Above their heads, a huge chandelier sparkled like a thousand diamonds; under their feet, thick oriental carpets cushioned each step. The brass fixtures gleamed, the solid cypress woodwork had been waxed to a high shine.

Her mother called the hotel’s decor tasteful opulence; Glory thought it, simply, the most beautiful place in the world.

“You did very well out there, Glory,” her father murmured, squeezing her hand lightly. “I’m proud of you. You’ll be a wonderful general manager one day.”

Glory beamed up at him, feeling about to burst with pride. Her father had been bringing her here since she had been old enough to walk beside him; he had talked her through almost every aspect of the day-to-day running of the hotel. Many of those she didn’t understand, but she always listened raptly, enthralled as much by what her father was saying as by the fact that he was saying it to her.

Now, from all those years of careful listening, she knew a great deal about the hotel, from its history, to its worth, to how her father kept it running smoothly, day in and day out.

The St. Charles had one hundred and twenty-five rooms or suites and a penthouse that encompassed the entire top floor. Three presidents had slept under its roof: Roosevelt, Eisenhower and Kennedy, as had every Louisiana governor, at least once during his tenure, since the hotel first opened its doors. Countless movie stars had chosen accommodations at the St. Charles during their visits to New Orleans. The list included Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe and Robert Redford. Just this year the rock star Elton John had stayed here, although her daddy hadn’t been too happy about the hordes of squealing teenagers who had descended on the hotel, all determined to get a glimpse of the star.

Glory and her father crossed the foyer into the main lobby. The registration desk was located up ahead and to the right; to the left was an open lobby bar. High tea was served there in the afternoon—Glory liked the scones and jam best—cocktails in the evenings. Situated beyond both, its entrance set back in an alcove, was the Renaissance Room.

As she knew he would, her father stopped at the front desk. The woman behind the counter smiled. “Good evening, Mr. St. Germaine. Miss St. Germaine.”

“Hello, Madeline. How are things tonight?”

“Very good. Quiet, considering occupancy is seventy-five percent.”

“And the dining room?”

“Brisk tonight, I understand.”

“Where’s Marcus?” he asked, referring to the night manager.

She hesitated a moment. “I think he’s in the bar.”

Philip inclined his head. “We’ll be in the dining room. If he happens by, send him in.”

They walked away from the desk, and Glory peeked up at her father. “You’re mad at Marcus, aren’t you?”

“Not mad, Glory. Disappointed. He’s not doing his job.”

Glory pursed her lips. “He drinks too much, doesn’t he?”

Her father looked down at her in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“He was in the bar the last time we were in.” She shrugged. “I do know about things, Dad. After all, I’m not a little kid anymore.”

He laughed. “That’s right. Almost eight, already. Almost grown-up.” She frowned at his amusement, and he ruffled her hair. “Here we are. After you, poppet.”

They crossed through the alcove to the maîitre d’s stand. Philip spoke to the man, waving aside his offer to escort them to their table. As they made their way through the dining room, Glory watched her father. He swept his gaze over the room, and she knew that his dark gaze missed nothing, no matter how small or insignificant. He nodded at the patrons who caught his eye, stopping and greeting many—some of whom he knew, some of whom he introduced himself to. Of each he inquired as to their satisfaction, each he wished well and expressed the hope that they would return soon.

When they reached their table, he pulled out Glory’s chair for her, waiting for her to be seated before he took his own place at the table. That done, he leaned toward her. “Everything must be perfect,” he said softly. “That’s what people expect from the St. Charles. You must never forget that.”

“I won’t,” she promised breathlessly. “You can count on me.”

He smiled at her response. “Remember, too, the importance of the personal touch. We are not a chain hotel, Glory. We must treat each patron as if they are personal friends, guests in our home.”

She nodded, hanging on his every word. “Yes, Daddy.”

“You see the table before you? Always check for flaws. Even the tiniest is unacceptable.” He lifted his utensils in turn, inspecting each carefully, a ritual they had been through dozens of times before. “There should be no fingerprints, no water spots. God forbid it should be soiled.”

He did the same with the crystal. She followed his lead, studying, inspecting, pursing her lips ever so slightly as she did, in a perfect mimicry of him. She saw her reflection in the soup spoon and smiled, liking how grown-up she looked.

“The linen should be spotless and crisp,” he continued. “And the flowers must always be fresh. If one droops, it must be removed.”

“The china can’t be cracked or chipped,” she piped in. “Even the tiniest chip is…” She stopped, searching for the perfect word, the one he always used.

He helped her out. “Unacceptable.”

“Right. Unacceptable.”

He leaned toward her once again. “At the St. Charles people pay for the best, and the best is perfection. We must give it to them. If we don’t, they’ll take their business elsewhere.”

After that, they ordered, then enjoyed their meals. While they ate, her father talked more about the hotel, sharing stories about his father and grandfather, telling her about the early days of the hotel. Even though Glory had heard most of what he said many times before, she never grew tired of hearing him tell her again, and urged him to share even more details with her.

It wasn’t until their dinners had been cleared away and her dessert and his coffee served, that Glory thought again about her mother. She realized she hadn’t seen her since her punishment.

“Where’s Mama tonight?” she asked, licking a drop of strawberry sauce from her thumb.

Philip took a sip of his coffee. “She went to mass.”

“We went this morning, too.” Glory looked glumly down at her ice-cream sundae. “She must still be angry with me. About the flowers and Mr. Riley.”

His mouth tightened. “That’s all over now, poppet. She just made a mistake about those flowers. Remember?”

Glory looked up at him, then away, her heart hurting.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Your mama loves you very much. She just wants you to grow up to be a good person. That’s all.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she murmured, though she didn’t believe it was true. She peeked up at him and knew he didn’t believe it, either. She knew, in her heart, that he, too, wondered what was wrong with Glory that her Mama didn’t love her.

That hurt so much, she wanted to die.

“Poppet? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Daddy,” she said, the words small and sad.

For a moment, he said nothing, and she silently begged for him to ask her the question again, silently wished for him to insist she tell him the truth. Instead, in a voice that sounded false, he said, “Have you thought about what you want for your birthday?”

She didn’t look up; the tablecloth swam before her eyes. “It’s still two months away.”

“Two months isn’t long.” His coffee cup clicked against the saucer as he set it down. “You must have given it some thought.”

She had, Glory thought bitterly. She wanted the same thing she had wished for last year, the same thing she wished for every year.

That her mother would love her.

“No,” Glory whispered without looking up. “I haven’t.”

“Well, don’t you worry.” He reached across the table and covered her clenched hands with one of his own. “Your daddy has something special in mind. Something fitting his precious poppet’s eighth birthday.”

When she didn’t respond, he squeezed her hands, then drew his back. “Let’s do a quick tour of the hotel before we head home.”

She shrugged, still battling tears. “Okay.”

At first, as they strolled down the halls, Glory’s hurt and feeling of betrayal prevented her from enjoying this ritual, one she usually found such pleasure in. But as each minute passed, those feelings dimmed and the magic of the St. Charles, the magic of being with her father, swelled inside her. Her father loved her, she knew. They shared this, their love of the hotel. Here, her mother couldn’t come between them.

When they had checked each floor and made sure everything was in perfect order, Philip summoned an elevator, their tour over. “Occupancy is the key,” her father said as they stepped into the empty elevator. He punched the lobby button. “You must keep the hotel booked. Empty rooms are not only lost revenue, but lost capital, as well. The staff and the premises must be maintained to the same standard, whether the hotel’s occupancy is twenty percent or one hundred percent. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he continued, “You must never abuse your ownership. Guests’ needs must always come before the owner’s needs. Never give away a room or service you can sell.

“It will be tempting, I know. It’s fun to give away dinners, to throw lavish parties for your friends, to do favors for people you like. But over the years I’ve seen hoteliers get into trouble that way. They’ve lost either all or part ownership of their hotels. That must never happen to the St. Charles. We have kept her strong and in the family by being good businessmen, and by being determined to hold on to her. The needs of the hotel come first. Always.”

“I couldn’t bear for us to lose the St. Charles,” she said softly, lifting her face to his. “I love her.”

“That’s good. Because someday she’ll be yours.” The elevator doors slid open, but her father didn’t make a move to get out. Instead, he caught her hand and held it tightly. “The St. Charles is in your blood, Glory. It’s as much a part of you as your mother and I. It’s your heritage.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He tightened his fingers more, meeting her eyes, the expression in his fierce. “You must never forget, family and heritage are everything. Who you are and who you will be. Never forget,” he said again. “Family and heritage, no one can take them away from you.”

Chapter 9

Glory awakened suddenly but without a start. She didn’t open her eyes but even so, she knew her mother stood beside the bed, staring down at her. Glory felt her presence, felt her gaze burning into her, marking her like a brand.

Seconds ticked past, becoming minutes. Glory kept her eyes shut tight. She didn’t want to alert her mother to the fact that she had awakened, she didn’t want to see her mother’s expression. She knew, from countless times before, just what that expression would be. And how it would make her feel.

Glory began to sweat under her light blanket; her heart thundered so heavily against the wall of her chest, she was certain her mother must be able to see its beat. Time seemed to stop and hold its breath; her every sense, every nerve ending strained, focusing on her mother, waiting and wishing for her to go away.

But her mother didn’t go away. Instead, she moved closer to the bed. Glory heard the soft scrape of her slippers on the floor, felt the mattress move as her mother’s knees connected with it. Her mother bent over her, the rhythm of her breathing changing, deepening to a sort of pant.

Fear turned Glory’s mouth to ash. What if it wasn’t her mother beside the bed? What if it was a stranger gazing down at her, or a monster?

What if it was the devil himself?

A cry raced to her lips; she held it back—barely. The fear squeezed at her. She pictured The Great Red Beast there beside her, waiting for her to open her eyes so he could steal her soul.

Glory curled her fingers tightly into the damp bedsheets, the darkness closing in on her, her imagination creating vivid, frightening movies in her head. Finally, she couldn’t bear the unknown another moment; finally the what ifs overwhelmed her. Terrified, she cracked open her eyes.

And wished with all her heart that she had not.

Her mother stood beside the bed, gazing down at her, her face twisted into an ugly mask, her eyes burning with an emotion, a light, that made Glory’s skin crawl.

Glory shuddered, even as tears built behind her eyes. Her mother looked at her as if she, Glory, was the monster she had feared only moments before. As if she, Glory, was the devil.

Why, Mama? Glory wanted to scream. What about me is so ugly? What have I done to cause you to look at me this way?

She swallowed the words, though not without great effort. A moment later, without so much as blinking, her mother turned and left the room. She snapped the door shut behind her, leaving Glory in total darkness once again.

Glory’s tears came then, hot and bitter. She curled into a tight ball, her face pressed into her pillow to muffle the sound of her shame, her despair. She cried for a long time, until her tears were spent, until all she could manage was a dry, broken sound of grief.

She rolled onto her back, bringing one of her soft, plush animals with her. She clutched it to her chest, remembering the first time she had awakened to find her mother above her, looking at her in that way, her face almost unrecognizable with hate. Glory had been young, so young she couldn’t recall any other details of the experience.

She could recall, however, the way she had felt—ugly and afraid. And alone, so very alone.

The way she felt right now.

Glory hugged the toy tighter to her chest. Why did her mother look at her that way? What had she done to cause her mother’s face to change into one she barely recognized? One that was ugly and frightening?

Why didn’t her mother love her?

It always came back to that, Glory thought, tears welling again, slipping down her cheeks.

At least her father loved her.

Glory clasped that truth to her, much as she did her plush toy, denying the little voice that taunted, the one that insisted he loved her mother more. That didn’t matter, she told herself, thinking of their evening at the hotel, of their dinner at the Renaissance Room and the things he had said about family and heritage.

Glory ran his words through her head, holding on to them, letting them soothe and comfort her. They made her feel less alone, less frightened. She was a part of her mother, a part of her father. She was a part of the St. Germaine family and of the St. Charles.

No one could take that away from her. Not her mother’s burning gaze, not the darkness of her own fear.

She wasn’t alone. With family, she never would be.

Chapter 10

Glory stopped at the library door, looked over her shoulder to make sure her mother wasn’t anywhere about, then ducked inside, partially shutting the door behind her. She tiptoed across the floor, heading toward the shelves containing the forbidden books, the ones her mother had made strictly off limits.

And now she knew why.

She reached the wall of books, glanced behind her one last time, then tipped her head back, scanning the titles on the fourth shelf. Art Through The Ages; The Postimpressionists; Pierre Auguste Renoir: The Last Years; Michelangelo.

Glory stopped on the last. Her grand-mère had called Michelangelo the greatest sculptor of the human form ever. She would bet that book contained what she was looking for. Now, all she had to do was figure out how she was going to get it off the shelf.

She looked around her, eyebrows drawn together in thought. The library ladder was on the opposite wall; the two chairs, big, old leather things, were too heavy for her to move by herself, the sofa too big to even contemplate.

“Darn,” she muttered. “What to do?”

Her gaze lighted on the brass wastepaper basket in the corner. She crossed to it and plucked out the wadded papers, then carried it across the room. She set it upside down in front of the shelf, then climbed onto it. She stretched; the wastebasket wobbled; the book remained out of her reach. Bracing herself with one hand, she stood on tiptoe and reached her other hand as high as she could. She still didn’t come close.

“Darn,” she said again, this time loudly, forgetting stealth.

From behind her came a yawn and the creak of leather. Glory gasped and swiveled, nearly toppling the basket and herself. Danny Cooper, the housekeeper’s six-year-old grandson stared sleepily at her over the top of one of the leather wingbacks.

She glared at him, her heart still racing. “You about scared me to death. What are you doing in here?”

“Staying out of the way.” He yawned again. “Mom had to go to the doctor and Grandma said to be good. She’s always telling me that when I’m here. I wanted to play, but I couldn’t find you.”

“Mama has a headache this morning. Grand-mère took me out for beignets.”

He rested his chin on top of the chair back. “You want to go play?”

Glory tipped her head, studying the six-year-old. She and Danny had played together since he was a toddler, and although he was too young to call her best friend, secretly she thought of him that way.

She hopped off the wastebasket. “I’ve got a better idea. Can you keep a secret?”

“You bet.” He nodded, punctuating his answer.

“I need you to help me get one of those books.” She pointed toward the books on the fourth shelf.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “How come?”

She looked to her left, then to her right. “Grand-mère,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, “took me to the art museum yesterday. And I saw something that—” Her cheeks heated, and she shook her head. “Anyway, when I asked Grand-mère about it, she turned red and said we had to go home. And we had just gotten there, too.”

He lifted his gaze to the shelf of art books. “What you saw is in those books?”

“Uh-huh.” She followed his gaze. “And I want to see it again.”

“I can get Granny to help.”

“No!” Glory held out her hands to stop him. “You can’t.” She brought a finger to her lips and tiptoed over to him. “I’m not supposed to see those books. They’re forbidden.”

“Oh.” His eyes twinkled. “Can I see, too?”

“I’ll let you see, if you’ll help me. But you have to keep it a secret. Can you?”

He nodded solemnly. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“If we’re caught, we’ll get in trouble. Big trouble.” At the thought of her mother discovering her disobedience, a quiver of fear moved through her. Glory caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and glanced at the partially closed library door. Her mother had not gotten up that morning; she never did when she had one of her headaches. Most times, when she had one of her headaches, Glory didn’t see her until dinner. Sometimes not even then.

Reassured, she returned her gaze to Danny’s. She tipped up her chin in challenge. “Can you handle that?”

He straightened and puffed out his narrow chest. “If you can, I can.”

“Good.” Glory rubbed her hands together. “The first thing we need to do is to move this chair over to the shelves. If we both push, I’ll bet we can do it.”

He climbed off the chair and together, giggling, they alternately pushed and pulled it across the room. They parked the chair directly underneath the Michelangelo book; Glory climbed up and a moment later, she closed her fingers over it.

The volume was large and heavy; Glory very nearly couldn’t get it off the shelf. She wiggled it to the edge, then lost her grip and it crashed to the floor, making a huge racket. Glory’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at Danny, he looked at her. They both turned toward the library door, half-frozen with the certainty that they were about to be found out.

One moment became many, and finally Glory was able to draw an even breath. She held a finger to her lips, then scrambled off the chair to retrieve the book. She opened it, flipped through, and found what she had been seeking. The sculpture was called David; he had curly hair and a pretty face.

And he was naked.

Cheeks burning, she lowered her eyes, almost afraid of what she might—or might not—see. But there it was, at the top of the man’s thighs, like pieces of rolled-up fruit or a cannoli.

Glory narrowed her eyes, studying. It looked so weird, so strange and out of place. She touched the photograph lightly, both intrigued and repelled. Did all men look like this? Did all men have a cannoli between their legs?

“No fair!” Danny craned his neck. “Let me see…let me see.”

Glory tore her gaze from the strange and beautiful image, though it took great effort. “Are you sure you’re old enough?”

He lifted his chin. “If you are, I am.”

“I’m two years older than you.”

“But I’m a boy.”

She glared up at him. “Big whip. I’m still older than you are.”

He stuck out his lower lip. “You promised.”

“Oh, all right. But don’t blame me.” Glory handed him the book. He looked at the page, his expression blank. “What?”

“That,” she said, reaching up and pointing.

He tipped his head, studying the image. “What?” he said again.

Cheeks on fire, Glory stood on tiptoe and pointed to the exact place in question, the rolled kernels of flesh at the apex of the man’s thighs. “That!”

“You mean, his penis?”

Glory stared at him aghast. A penis? It was called a penis?

“I have one, too. All boys do.”

All boys had a…penis. Dumbfounded, she climbed back onto the chair and took the book from Danny’s hands. Admittedly, she’d had little contact with boys. She attended an all-girls school, and other than Danny and a couple of distant cousins, she had never been allowed to spend time alone with boys.

Her mother had told her that was because nice girls didn’t associate with boys. But Glory knew that other boys and girls went to school together, that they played together. She had seen them over the estate wall, she had seen them get on the streetcar together, had seen them riding their bicycles, side by side, down the avenue. And she had listened to the other girls at school talk, girls who she had always thought were nice.

Glory frowned. But still, it smarted that little Danny, just out of kindergarten, was privy to this important information. It smarted, too, that he acted so casual about it, as if everyone knew about penises. Everyone but her, that was.

Danny was a boy, Glory remembered suddenly. That’s why he knew. He probably had no idea what girls had. She drew herself up to her full forty-eight inches and told him so.

“Girls have vaginas,” he said, nodding his head for emphasis.

She made a choked sound. “How do you know that?”

“My mom told me. Boys have penises, girls have vaginas. That’s the way God made us, special and unique.”

She drew her eyebrows together, confused and annoyed. “Then, it’s not a secret?”

“Heck, no.” He shook his head. “Everybody knows about ’em. Well, almost everybody,” he amended. “And my friend Nathan, he calls his penis a hooter.”

“Hooter,” she repeated, trying to adjust to all this new information. Why, she wondered, had her mother kept this from her? And why, when she had pointed to the man’s penis at the museum and asked about it, had her grandmère acted so weird, then dragged her off? It made no sense.

Glory looked at Danny, an idea coming to her. “Can I see yours?” she asked, surprising herself. “I mean, I’ve never seen a…a penis before.” The word felt strange on her tongue, and she blushed. “If you show me your penis, I’ll show you my vagina.”

“I don’t know,” he said, pursing his lips. “You might make fun of me. An’ what if we get caught?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t make fun, I promise. You’re my friend, and that wouldn’t be nice. And we’re not going to get caught. I just want to see.”

He thought a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

He pulled down his shorts and underpants. Glory made a sound of surprise and crouched in front of him to get a better look. He did have one. But it looked different than the one in the art book, and not like fruit or a cannoli at all. She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer, studying it. It was much smaller. And bumpier. Like a bumpy little cocktail frank.

A horrified gasp broke the quiet. Glory jerked her head up. Her mother stood in the doorway, her face pinched and white, her eyes wide and wild-looking. Even from across the room, Glory could see that she was shaking.

Glory swallowed hard, fear rising in her like a tidal wave. The book slid from her hands and hit the floor, falling open to the naked David. “Mama, I didn’t—”

“Whore,” her mother interrupted, advancing on her. “Dirty, little slut.”

Glory shook her head. She had only ever seen her mother look at her this way deep in the night, while she stood beside the bed staring down at her. She had never heard her speak those words before. They sounded ugly and they frightened her.

“Mama,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks, “I wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t mean—”

Hope grabbed Glory’s arm and yanked her off the chair. Glory landed on her knees, and her mother jerked her upright. Pain shot through her shoulder, and she cried out.

At her cry, Hope’s rage seemed to escalate instead of diminish. She closed her hands around Glory’s upper arms and shook her so hard her teeth rattled. “I will not allow such pernicious behavior in my house! Do you hear me? It’s evil and dirty. I will not allow it!”

“Mama…I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…it was Danny’s idea…He made me do it…he made me…Please, Mama…please…”

Danny, his shorts down around his thighs, began to cry, too, loud wails of despair.

Mrs. Cooper rushed into the library. “Madam, what’s—” She stopped, taking in the scene, her expression dismayed. “Oh, dear,” she said, hurrying forward. “Danny, love, what have you yourself gotten into?”

Danny’s tears became howls. “Didn’t do it, Granny! Wasn’t me! Wasn’t!”

Hope spun around, her hand raised as if to slap him. Mrs. Cooper darted between them. She pulled up Danny’s pants and gathered him into her arms. “Calm down, Mrs. St. Germaine. Children will be children. They were merely curious and no harm’s been done.”

“Get out!” Hope raged. “And take that…vile little beast with you. I never want to see either of you again. Is that clear?”

Mrs. Cooper reeled back, her expression stunned. “But, madam, certainly you don’t mean—”

“But I do.” She took a step toward the older woman, eyes narrowed. “Get out, now. Get out, for ‘God’s servant is an agent of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer. With eyes like blazing fire, he will strike down her children.’”

Mrs. Cooper paled. She took another step back, then turned and ran, Danny howling in her arms. Glory watched them go, a sense of horror stealing over her. This time, she had done something really bad. This time, her mother wouldn’t forgive her. Not ever. She began to shake.

Her mother turned to her, her expression suddenly, terrifyingly calm. “Now then, Glory, come with me.”

Glory shook her head, frozen to the spot with fear, trembling so violently she could hardly stand.

Bright spots of color burned her mother’s cheeks. “Very well.” She curled her fingers around Glory’s arm and half led, half dragged her out of the library and up the stairs. Hope took her to her bedroom, but not to the corner, as Glory expected, but to her private bathroom. She shut and locked the door behind them.

Glory scurried to the corner and huddled in it, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her mother went to the tub and shoved aside the frilly pink shower curtain, bent and twisted the faucets on. A moment later, steam billowed from the tub into the air.

“Mama,” Glory whispered, “I’ll be good. I promise, I will. I’ll be good.”

“You’ve sinned against the Lord. You must be punished. You must be cleansed.” Hope turned to her then, the expression in her eyes straight out of Glory’s nightmares. “Get in the tub.”

Glory shook her head, her teeth chattering. She tightened her arms around herself. “It wasn’t me, Mama. It was Danny. It was his idea. He made me do it. We were just playing.”

Her mother advanced on her. “Like Eve, you can’t be trusted. She took the apple, she tasted. You have The Darkness, Glory.”

Glory pressed herself farther back into the corner. “Please, Mama,” she said again, tears running down her face. “It wasn’t my fault, it was Danny’s. Please, Mama. You’re scaring me.”

“I will cleanse you of The Darkness,” Hope said, her voice devoid of emotion, more terrifying for its absence. She yanked Glory to her feet, stripped her roughly, then dragged her to the tub and forced her into the steaming water.

Glory screamed. Her mother held her down. “This is nothing compared to the burn of hell’s fire. Remember that, daughter.”

Hope bent and rummaged in the basket beside the large, marble tub. She drew out a nailbrush. “I will cleanse you,” she said again. “If I have to, I will scrub the flesh from your bones. You will be clean, daughter.”

The next minutes were a nightmare. Her mother raked the brush over her skin, scrubbing every inch and part of her, alternating between whispered prayer and shouted rage. Glory recognized biblical passages interspersed with words she had never heard before, creating disjointed, frightening thoughts she didn’t understand. Her mother spoke repeatedly of a bad seed and of sin, of darkness and light. She spoke of Glory’s birth, of The Beast and of a mission.

Glory’s skin burned; her most tender places bled. She felt hot, then trembled with the cold. Numbness stole over her; with it her physical pain lessened. Her sobs became whimpers; her whimpers, silent shudders of despair.

Finally, when Glory no longer had the strength to sit upright, her mother drew her from the tub. She dried Glory roughly, slipped a plain cotton gown over her head, then led her to the corner of her bedroom. She forced her onto her knees.

“You must see the evil of your ways.” She curved her fingers around Glory’s shoulder, gripping tightly. “You must see the evil and understand the folly of heeding its call.”

Shuddering, Glory lifted her gaze to her mother’s face. It swam before her eyes.

“The Darkness will not have you, Glory Alexandra St. Germaine. Do you understand me? I will not allow it to have you.”

Without another word, her mother left the bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Chapter 11

Glory had no idea how long she remained on her knees in the corner, frozen with shock and grief, frozen with fear that if she moved, her mother would come upon her and fly into another rage.

Her skin burned as if on fire, every place and part of her body. The wooden floor bruised her knees. Her back ached; her head pounded.

But her heart hurt more. Much more.

Her father, not her mother, came for her. He didn’t speak, just scooped her into his arms and carried her to her bed. He sat on its edge and cradled her in his arms, murmuring sounds of love and comfort.

Glory sank into him, too weak to do more. She longed to tell him she was sorry, that she hadn’t meant to be such a bad, wicked girl, but she couldn’t make her mouth form the words. Just as she couldn’t cry, though she felt like weeping. She had cried herself dry hours ago.

The room grew dark. Still her father rocked her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could block out the image of her mother’s face, twisted with rage, her eyes hot with something that had frightened Glory clear to her core.

And later, much later, as she lay alone in her bedroom, dark save for the closet light her father had left burning for her, she wished she could block out the sound of angry voices. Her mother’s. Her father’s.

Glory dragged the blankets over her head. She had never heard them shout at each other this way. And although she couldn’t make out much that they were saying, she heard her name, many times. She heard her daddy say divorce; she heard her mother laugh in response.

Glory hid her face in her pillow, guilt overwhelming her physical pain. She was to blame for her parents’ fight. If her parents divorced, that, too, would be her fault. She was to blame for kind Mrs. Cooper being fired. It was her fault Danny had cried.

Her fault, it was all her fault.

Guilt and fear mixed inside her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She had lied to her mother about Danny. She had told her mother that it had been Danny’s idea to look at the books, Danny’s idea to pull down his pants.

Glory drew in a strangled breath. She had promised Danny that everything would be all right. That they wouldn’t get caught.

But they had. And then she had lied.

She was bad and wicked, just as her mother said. She wouldn’t blame Danny if he never wanted to be her friend again.

Just as the rest of the household staff no longer wanted to be her friend, she learned the next morning as she sat alone at the breakfast table. They came and went, silently, their eyes averted or downcast. When they did happen to meet her eyes, they looked quickly away.

Glory wrapped her arms around her middle, eyes burning. Usually, the staff joked with her. Usually, they laughed and winked. No more, she thought, tears choking her. They knew that she had lied. They knew she was to blame for Mrs. Cooper’s being fired. They didn’t like her anymore. Now they thought she was bad, too.

Glory gazed at her plate, at her fried eggs, their gooey yellow yolks spilled across the china plate, and her stomach hurt. She hugged herself tighter and thought of Danny, of the way he had looked at her the day before. He had been her friend. He never would have lied about her to save himself.

She had betrayed him.

She hung her head, remembering all the times they had played together, remembering all the times he had made her smile when she was sad. She remembered, too, how Mrs. Cooper would bring her a snack when she had missed lunch because of one of her mother’s punishments, recalled the times the woman had allowed her a bit of something her mother had forbidden.

Despair pinched at her chest, hurting, making it difficult to breathe. She missed Mrs. Cooper. She wanted Danny to be her friend again. A tear spilled over and rolled down her cheek, another followed. What she had done was wrong. Lying had been wrong. She wanted her mother to ask them back.

Glory heard her mother in the foyer, returning from morning mass. Glory brushed the tears from her cheeks. If her mother knew the truth, surely she would reconsider. Once she understood that none of it had been Danny’s fault, she wouldn’t blame poor Mrs. Cooper anymore.

Glory straightened. Danny had done nothing wrong, neither had his grandmother. If she told her mother the truth, her mother would ask them to come back. Surely she would. Surely she couldn’t punish them for her daughter’s sins.

All Glory had to do was face her mother. And tell her the truth.

Glory began to shake as the image of her mother from the day before filled her head. She recalled the punishing scrape of the nail brush against her skin, recalled the accusatory rasp of her mother’s voice as she had preached about evil and darkness.

Her mother might punish her again.

Glory whimpered, afraid. She shrank back in her chair, making herself small, as small as she could. Maybe she could tell her daddy instead. He could talk to her mama, or rehire Mrs. Cooper himself.

She thought of her parents’ fight. Divorce, her daddy had said. Glory squeezed her eyes tight shut. What would she do if her parents divorced? She knew how these things worked; she would have to live with her mama. How would she be able to stand it?

Glory straightened, fear souring the inside of her mouth. She couldn’t ask her daddy to do this. She had to talk to her mother herself.

And if she chickened out, she would never see Mrs. Cooper or Danny again.

She had to tell. She had to.

Glory swallowed hard, the taste in her mouth turning her stomach. She scooted off her chair and, heart pounding, tiptoed across the floor. She paused at the doorway to the foyer and peaked around the doorjamb. The foyer was empty, but she had a good idea where her mother was. Every morning after mass, her mother had a cup of tea and read the paper in the garden room.

She found her there. Glory hesitated in the doorway, her heart thundering. Her mother looked so pretty now, with the sunlight spilling over her, softening her, making her lacy white blouse glow like angel-garb.

She looked like an angel, Glory thought, struggling to control her fear. A dark-haired angel.

“Mama?” she said softly, her voice shaking.

Her mother looked up, and the celestial image evaporated. Her mother’s eyes had not lost their fevered light; her mouth was set in a tight, unforgiving line. Glory caught her breath and took an involuntary step back.

Hope made a sound of impatience. “What is it, Glory?”

Glory clasped her hands in front of her, so tightly her knuckles popped out white in relief. “May I…may I speak with you, please?”

Her mother hesitated a moment, then nodded and folded her paper. That done, she met her daughter’s eyes once more. “You may.”

“Mama,” she began, her voice quivering, “I wanted…I needed—” She cleared her throat. “Mama, I lied to you.”

Her mother arched her eyebrows but said nothing. Glory continued anyway. “I lied about Danny. It wasn’t…his idea to look at the books. It wasn’t his idea to look at…It was mine.”

Still her mother remained silent. One moment became several, and Glory swallowed hard, more afraid than she had ever been. Tears flooded Glory’s eyes. “I wanted you to know that it was my fault. All of it.”

“I see.”

Those two words held a world of disapproval and disappointment, and Glory hung her head. “I’m sorry, Mama. And I’m ashamed.”

Her mother brought her teacup to her lips and sipped. She then returned it to its delicate china saucer and patted her mouth with a napkin. “Is that all?”

“No.” Glory took a step into the room, a measure of her fear easing. Her mother was not flying into a rage. Her face was not contorting with fury, not transforming into that of a person she didn’t know but feared beyond measure. “I thought…I hoped that you might ask Mrs. Cooper back.”

Save for the way Hope tapped one fingernail against the teacup handle, she didn’t move. She seemed to not even breathe. Finally, she lifted her gaze to look thoughtfully at her daughter. “Why should I?”

“Because…because I lied.” Glory pressed a hand to her chest. “It wasn’t Danny’s fault. It wasn’t his grandmother’s. They shouldn’t be punished for my behavior. Please, Mama. I’m sorry and very ashamed. Please ask them back.”

Her mother stood and crossed to the window. For long moments she gazed out at the bright, hot day, then turned back to her daughter, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “It’s good that you’re ashamed of your behavior, you should be. It’s good that you’re sorry. But how do I know you really are?”

“I am, really!” Glory took several steps toward her mother, hope surging through her. “I promise I am. Please ask Mrs. Cooper back.”

“I may,” she said softly. “I just may.”

Glory brought her clasped hands to her heart. Her mother would ask Mrs. Cooper back. Danny would be her friend again. The rest of the staff would like her again. “Oh, Mama, thank you! Thank you so mu—”

“I’ll ask her back,” her mother interrupted. “If you can prove to me that you can be a good girl. If you can show me that you can be the kind of girl the Lord expects you to be.”

Glory burst into a smile. “I can, Mama! I’ll show you! Just you wait, I’ll be the best girl ever!”

Chapter 12

Hope knew of places in the French Quarter where she could get anything she needed, where she could fill any dark, uncontrollable desire that raged inside her. Many of these places were public and appeared to be nothing more than bars or shops or strip clubs. Most were frequented by wide-eyed tourists who never suspected what went on behind the public show.

Tonight, The Darkness had brought her to one of them.

Hope slipped through a rear door and headed down a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls were damp; the air fecund. From between the hundred-year-old plaster walls she could hear the scurry of cockroaches. A place as old as the French Quarter harbored many creatures. Some of them human.

She had disguised herself, not that anyone from her circle would see her here. But she knew not to take chances. She had visited this place, and others like it, many times before.

With each step, The Darkness grew stronger inside her, beating…beating…building to a fever pitch. Building until all that was left of Hope St. Germaine was a throbbing shell. Inside her burned an inferno that needed to be quenched before it consumed her live.

She would hate herself tomorrow. As always, she would curse her mother, her past, all the Pierron women. She would punish herself; she would do penance.

But at least The Darkness would be sated. At least, for a while, it would slumber inside her. And maybe, this time it would slumber forever.

And she would finally be free.

She stopped before the door marked by the number three. She drew in a shuddering breath, the blood thrumming in her head, the call so loud it reverberated through her like tribal drums. She reached for the knob and the metal felt cold against her fevered skin. She twisted and pushed; the door eased open.

On the bed, naked, the man waited for her.

Chapter 13

Glory did as she promised her mother. Her every waking moment she devoted to being the good girl her mother wanted her to be. She walked instead of ran, prayed instead of sang; she neither laughed too much nor too loudly; she never complained, talked back or expressed a wish that ran counter to her mother’s.

The days became weeks. Still, her mother did not ask Mrs. Cooper or Danny back. Still, Glory sometimes awakened in the night to find her mother looking at her in that way.

At first Glory didn’t understand. Then she realized what her mother was up to: she planned Mrs. Cooper’s return to be a birthday surprise. So Glory waited eagerly for her eighth birthday to arrive. She counted the days, then the hours. She continued to be the best girl she could be.

Her birthday finally arrived. That morning, she raced down to breakfast, eager to welcome Mrs. Cooper back, eager to see her soft smile and kind blue eyes. Eager to ask about Danny.

Instead, she was greeted by grim Mrs. Greta Hillcrest, the new housekeeper.

Disappointment, so bitter she tasted it, welled up inside her. Turning, Glory ran to her bedroom and locked herself inside.

She threw herself on the bed and cried, cried until she had no more tears. She had been so certain her mother planned to surprise her; she had worked so hard to earn that surprise.

Now she knew the truth.

Her mother would never rehire Mrs. Cooper. Because no matter how hard Glory tried, no matter how much she wanted it, she would never be a good enough girl for her mother. She would never be able to make her happy or proud, she would never be the daughter her mother longed for.

Glory hugged herself hard. She didn’t understand what she had done, she didn’t know why she always fell short. But she did fall short. And she always would.

Her mother had known that. All along, Glory realized, suddenly angry. Even as she had been making the deal, she had known Glory wouldn’t please her. She’d never had any intention of rehiring Mrs. Cooper.

Anger took Glory’s breath. Her mother had lied. She had tried to trick Glory. All along, she had known that her daughter would never be a good enough girl to please her.

The anger built inside Glory; it stole her tears, her hurt and disappointment. And it brought her, oddly, a measure of peace.

Much later, Glory gazed at her birthday cake, at the eight flickering candles. Around her, the last chorus of “Happy Birthday” ended and the assembled group burst into applause. For as long as she could remember, every birthday she had wished for the same thing—that her mother would love her.

Not this year, Glory decided defiantly, chest aching with her unshed tears. She would never again waste one of her wishes on her mother.

Taking a deep breath, Glory blew out her candles.

Part 4 Family

Chapter 14

New Orleans 1980

He’d had it. Santos dug his duffel bag off the top shelf of the bedroom closet. He had taken all the paid-for caring, all the phony concern he was going to. He was out of here.

And this time the state wouldn’t find him. This time they wouldn’t be able to drag him back; they wouldn’t be able to force him into another foster home.

In the year and a quarter since his mother’s murder, the state had provided him with four foster families. Each family had been a learning experience. The first had taught him not to think—even for a minute—of them as a real family, as his family. He was nothing more than a job for them, a crusade, an income-earning cause.

The second family had taught him not to cry—no matter what was said or done to him, no matter how much he hurt. They taught him that his pain was a private thing, something that mattered only to him. He learned quickly that when he exposed his true feelings, he opened himself to ridicule.

The third family had taught him to expect nothing from other people, not even basic human decency. He had learned nothing from this, his fourth family, because he had no spot left that was vulnerable to such a lesson. He had no hopes, no illusions, no small, secret wishes of love from them. He had closed himself off from his foster family and everyone else, as well.

Consequently, he had been labeled difficult and uncommunicative by the families who had taken him in and by the social workers, his teachers and the school administrators.

Santos fisted his fingers. In a little over a year, he had suffered through the aftermath of his mother’s murder, he had lived with four different families in four different areas of the city and had attended four different schools. He had lost all his old friends and made no new ones. His whole life had changed. And yet, he was branded as difficult and sullen. It was just as his buddies had always said, the system sucked.

This time they wouldn’t find him.

Santos emptied his drawers and stuffed his meager belongings into his duffel. They wouldn’t find him because now he understood where he had gone wrong, the mistake he had made each time he’d run away.

He hadn’t run far enough.

He had to leave New Orleans. If he stayed, they would find him, they would drag him back, put him in another home. He couldn’t bear another “new” family. He couldn’t bear another school, new surroundings, new faces. Not ones that were forced on him. He was sixteen now, practically a man. He could make it on his own.

He had planned his escape carefully. He had saved—a dollar here, a dollar there—fifty-two dollars. He had studied a Louisiana map and decided on Baton Rouge as his destination. It was big enough to disappear in, it was a university town with a lot of kids and was close to New Orleans. A mere ninety or so miles.

Santos hadn’t forgotten his vow to find his mother’s killer. As soon as he was old enough to be beyond the state’s grasp, he would return to New Orleans and make good on that vow.

His mother.

A catch in his chest, he fished a small jewelry box out of the back of his desk drawer, leaving behind the school supplies he would have no need for now. He opened the box and drew out the earrings, made of colored glass beads.

Carefully, almost reverently, Santos trailed the earrings across his palm. Inexpensive, more than a little gaudy, his mother had loved these earrings. “Austrian crystal,” he could hear her telling him the day she had bought them. He remembered her laughing as she clipped them on. They had almost brushed her shoulders, they were so long. She’d called them shoulder dusters. With his mind’s eye, he could see her wearing them, see how they caught the light when she moved, sparkling like colored diamonds.

The memory was at once sweet and painful, and he laid the earrings back onto their bed of cotton, then tucked the box with the rest of his things into his duffel. He began to zip the bag, then thinking better of it, retrieved the box and slipped it into one of the front pockets of his jeans. The earrings would be safer there.

His mother had had nothing of monetary value, but these earrings meant more to him than a thousand real diamonds. He couldn’t bear to lose them.

He finished zipping his bag, then took one last glance around the room that had never felt like his. He had no regrets, he thought. Not about leaving this family without a goodbye, not about sneaking out in the middle of the night or about the twenty dollars he had borrowed from the coffee can in the pantry. This family would not be sorry he had gone, and as for the money, he would return it when he could.

Santos crossed to the window and carefully slid it open. After checking below, he tossed out his bag, then headed out into the night.

Thirty minutes later, Santos climbed into the front passenger seat of an almost-new Chevy van. “Thanks, man,” he said to the driver who had picked him up. He rubbed his hands together in front of the heater vent. “I was afraid I was going to freeze before I got a lift.”

“Glad to help.” The guy smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Rick.”

Santos shook his hand, though it made him feel strange. “I’m Victor.”

“Good to know you.” Rick slipped the van into gear and eased back into traffic. “Where are you heading, Victor?”

“Baton Rouge. My grandmother’s in the hospital.” Santos leaned toward the vent and rush of warm air again. “She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Sorry to hear that. But you’re in luck—” he flashed Santos a smile “—I’m heading back to L.S.U. I can take you all the way in.”

He was on his way. Santos smiled. “Great. I really didn’t want to go back out in that cold.”

“I’ve got a thermos of coffee in back, if you want some.”

“No, thanks. I can’t stand the stuff.” Santos glanced around the interior of the car. It looked even newer from the inside than it had from the outside. There wasn’t even a parking or inspection sticker on the windshield. “How long have you been at L.S.U.?”

Rick glanced at him, then back at the road. “I’m graduating this year. In psychology. I’m going to have a ‘doctor’ in front of my name.”

Santos thought of what his mother had said about staying in school, and experienced a pang of regret. And guilt. He hadn’t kept that promise to her. Or any of the others, either.

He pushed the regret away, though not without effort. “What does a doctor of psychology do?”

“Works on people’s heads for a living. You know, help nut cases work out their problems. We studied all sorts of abnormal shit. You wouldn’t believe some of it, Victor. Unfucking-believable.”

He doubted that. Santos pictured his mother’s face, twisted in death. He swallowed hard. He had a feeling he would believe it all.

“I’m kind of tired,” Santos said. “You mind if we don’t talk for a while?”

“No problem.” Rick flashed him a smile. “You look wasted. If you need to crash, have at it. I promise I won’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

Santos glanced at the guy, finding something about him disturbing. Something about the man affected him like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

Rick shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’ve got a couple-hour trip ahead of us.” He flipped on the radio, playing with the dial until he found a station he liked. Suddenly, the Rolling Stones’ classic “Satisfaction” filled the quiet.

Santos leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window, watching the traffic, scarce though it was this time of night, gazing at the eerily dark buildings they passed.

Seconds became minutes as the van ate up the interstate. Relaxation crept up on him; his limbs and head grew heavy, his head lolled back against the seat. It felt as if his muscles were loosening for the first time in a year. It felt good.

Santos drew in a deep, even breath, lulled by the rhythm of the van and the highway. This time they wouldn’t find him, he thought sleepily. This time they wouldn’t be able to drag him back. And when he was older, he promised silently, when he was safe from their reach, he would come back and find his mother’s killer.

Santos awakened with a start. As he often did, he had been dreaming of his mother. And of Tina. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and found that he was sweating. In the dream, both women had been crying out for his help. He had tried to reach them in time, but he had been too late. Both had slipped through his fingers, falling into a great, dark chasm he had known was death.

The van hit a rut or pothole and lurched sideways, and Santos came fully awake. He blinked and looked around, disoriented and confused.

“Welcome back, man.”

Santos smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I had no intention of dozing off.” He caught a yawn. “How long was I out?”

“Not long. Thirty minutes.”

It felt longer, Santos thought, rolling his cramped shoulders and neck. A lot longer. He ached as if he had been sleeping hard for a long time.

He glanced out the window. They appeared to be on a deserted country road. He frowned, a prickle of unease moving up his spine. Something about this ride felt wrong.

He shook his head, hoping to clear the sleep from his brain. “Where are we?”

“On River Road. Near Vacherie.”

“River Road,” Santos repeated. He had studied the map, had planned his route. Baton Rouge was a straight shot from New Orleans—Interstate 10 west all the way.

Why were they on River Road?

As if reading his thoughts, Rick said, “A chemical truck overturned on the spillway. They’ve got the whole damn bridge closed down. I figured we could take River Road clear to Baton Rouge.”

Santos struggled to recall if River Road went to Baton Rouge. He couldn’t even picture it on the map.

“Ever visited any of the old plantation homes, Victor?” Santos shook his head, and Rick continued, “They’re located all along River Road, and they’re really something. Back then, they needed the river for everything, their supplies, to ship out their crops, for travel. You should go see one someday.”

Santos rubbed his forehead. How could he have fallen asleep? he berated himself. How could he have been so stupid? So trusting and naive? “Won’t River Road take us a lot longer?”

“Not longer than sitting in traffic, waiting for a chemical spill to be cleared away. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to chance breathing in any of that shit.”

“Good thinking,” Santos murmured, willing away his unease. Rick was an okay guy, he told himself. Taking River Road sounded like a sensible idea.

Then why couldn’t he shake the feeling that something was wrong?

“You okay, Victor?” Rick looked at him in concern. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” Santos inched a fraction closer to his door. “Just tired.”

Rick began to talk, telling Santos more about L.S.U. and psychology. Every so often, Rick questioned Santos about his life and his family, and each time Santos steered the conversation away from himself and back to Rick.

And as the other man talked, Santos kept repeating to himself that Rick was okay, that the ride was cool.

But he didn’t believe his own assurances. Something felt wrong. Santos couldn’t put his finger on it, but whatever it was lay heavily in the pit of his gut, warning him to get the hell away.

“You can be straight with me,” Rick was saying. “Your grandmother’s not really sick, is she? There’s no one waiting for you. No one in the world.”

Santos looked at the man, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. Rick took his gaze from the road and smiled at him, an open, friendly, you-can-trust-me smile.

People weren’t always what they appeared to be.

The last year had taught him that lesson. Big time. Santos worked to look totally surprised—even a little indignant—at Rick’s comment. “Of course, my grandmother’s sick. She’s very sick. And she’s waiting for me.” He shook his head. “Why did you say that?”

“Look,” Rick said, handling the van effortlessly, hardly looking at the winding road, “I’ve been around. A kid like you, your age, out alone this time of night. It doesn’t add up. You’re on your own, aren’t you?”

Without waiting for Victor to reply, he added, “I could help you. Give you a place to stay for a while, whatever.”

“But why would you? I’m nobody to you.”

“Because I’ve been where you are now, Victor. I know how tough it is. Believe me, it’s a lot tougher than you can even imagine.”

A part of Santos wanted to capitulate, to come clean and accept Rick’s help. The guy’s offer sounded so sincere, so inviting. But another part, the cautious part, the part that had learned more about people and their real motives than he had ever wanted to, didn’t believe the man’s offer was anything but a lie. Or a trick. People didn’t help other people for no reason.

“I bet it is tough.” Santos met Rick’s eyes evenly. “But I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not on my own. And my grandmother is waiting for me in Baton Rouge. She’s expecting me.”

“Suit yourself.” Rick shrugged and grinned.

Something about the curving of the man’s lips was cold. Cold and cunning. Santos hid his shudder of distaste. “I will. But thanks, anyway.”

Rick slowed the van, then pulled to the side of the road. “I have to take a leak.”

Santos nodded and turned toward his window and the dark hump of the levee beyond. He heard Rick unfasten his seat belt, then from the corners of his eyes saw him reach under the seat.

Get the hell out now.

The warning shot through Santos head, and he reacted without hesitation. He grabbed the door handle and yanked; at the same moment, Rick lunged, knocking him sideways. Santos’s shoulder slammed into the door, and it cracked open. Light flooded the interior.

Something clattered to the floor. Santos swung around with his fist, catching Rick in the side of the face. With a grunt of surprise, the man fell backward. It was then that Santos saw the length of yellow nylon rope on the floor between the seats, saw the knife, its blade glinting coldly.

His mother’s image, battered and bloodied, filled his head. For one unholy second, panic stole his ability to think, to act. In that second, Rick recovered from the blow and reached for the rope. With a cry of fear, Santos lunged for the door. It flew the rest of the way open and the cold night air stung his cheeks and the smell of the River rushed over his senses.

He was almost out.

Rick caught his foot, his fingers closing over his ankle like a vise, dragging him back. Santos felt the bite of a rope as Rick tightened it around his ankle.

Santos looked back at his attacker, nearly hysterical with fear. He couldn’t think. His heart was pounding so wildly, beating so heavily, he could hardly breathe. His thoughts, lightning fast, raced from one thing to another, one image to another. His mother, her murder, her beautiful face frozen into a terrible death mask.

As if understanding—and enjoying—Santos’s fear, the man smiled. “We can do this easy, Victor. Or we can do it hard. And easy is always a lot nicer.” He grabbed Santos’s other ankle. “Now why don’t you be a good boy for your uncle Rick and cooperate.”

He would not die this way. He would not allow his mother’s death to go unavenged.

With a cry of rage and fear, a cry primordial in its intensity, Santos wrenched his foot away, drew back and struck out at the other man. His foot connected with Rick’s jaw, and the man’s head snapped backward at the blow.

Rick released his grip, and Santos dived out of the van. He tumbled onto the muddy shoulder, then scrambled to his feet, slipping in the mud, falling to his knees. He tried again, half crawling, finally making it to his feet.

Heart thundering, he looked around frantically. His labored breathing sent puffs of condensation into the air. The car was flanked on one side by the levee and the Mississippi River beyond, on the other side by fenced property, heavily wooded.

The driver’s-side door flew open; Rick leaped out. Without pausing for thought, Santos ran, darting into the road.

Headlights sliced through the night. A car whipped around the curve, moving too fast to stop, too fast for him to dodge. As if from a great distance, Santos heard the blare of a horn, the screech of tires.

Pain shot through him, exquisitely sharp, piercing in its intensity. Brilliant white light filled his head, followed by the the sensation of weightlessness, of flying, soaring like an eagle.

A moment later, his world went black.

Chapter 15

Dear Lord, she had killed him.

Heart in her throat, Lily Pierron crouched beside the young man’s still form. She reached out and touched his forehead, somewhat reassured to find his skin warm and damp. She brushed his dark hair away from his eyes, and he moaned and stirred slightly.

He was alive, Lily thought, dizzy with relief. Thank God. She lifted her gaze to the dark stretch of road before her, uncertain what she should do next. She doubted that at this time of night another driver would happen along anytime soon, and other than her home, there wasn’t another residence for nearly a half a mile. She brought a trembling hand to her forehead. Should she try to move him or leave him to go for help?

Neither option appealed. Depending on his injuries, she could seriously hurt him by trying to move him. She was neither young nor strong, and in all probability, without his assistance she could do no better than drag him to her car.

That left leaving him alone while she went for help.

Lily thought of the driver of the van. As she had called out to him to stop and help, he had flown back into his vehicle and peeled out, so fast he had sprayed gravel clear across the road. Whatever had been going down when she happened along, this boy had been trying to escape. Why else would he have been running across the road that way?

Another thought occurred to her, one that sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine. What if that driver was up the road a bit, watching and waiting to see what she did? Waiting to see if she left the boy alone and helpless?

A long shot, she told herself, rubbing her arms, noticing the cold for the first time. Most criminals didn’t hang around the scene, “just to see what happened.” No, criminals usually put as much time and distance between themselves and the crime as possible. But still, the idea of leaving the boy alone, hurt and vulnerable, frightened her.

The boy moaned again, and she returned her gaze to his face. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He stared blankly at her.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her words tumbling out in a jumbled rush. “I didn’t see you. I came around the curve, and there you were. I tried to stop, I really did. I’m so, so sorry.”

His eyes drifted shut again, a grimace of pain twisting his features.

“Dear God.” Lily brought a hand to her chest. “Where do you hurt? How bad is it?” She made a choked sound of exasperation. “As if I could do anything about it if you did tell me. Dammit, where’s a doctor when you need one? Overpaid quacks.” She drew in a deep, calming breath. “Don’t you worry. I’ll go get help.”

As she made a move to stand, he caught her hand, his grip surprisingly strong. Startled, she looked at him. His eyes were open, but this time the expression in them was so fierce she caught her breath. He moved his gaze, looking toward the other side of the road.

Lily followed his glance, then understood. “Gone,” she said. “Just took off when I stopped the car.” She frowned. “If he was a friend of yours, you need to choose a little more carefully.”

“He…wasn’t…”

The boy slurred his words, and as he spoke his eyes fluttered as if he was experiencing a wave of dizziness. Lily swore. “Look, you need help. I hate to leave you, but I live just across the street.” She pointed. “I’ll call 911 and be right ba—”

N…no. I’m…fine.”

Lily watched in horror as he struggled into a sitting position, his face twisting into that awful grimace of pain as he did. “But, you’re not fine,” she said holding out a hand to stop him. “Son, you could be really hur—”

“I’m not your son.”

Though little more than a hoarse whisper, she heard the defiance and bitterness in his voice. His tone and words told her much about him, things he would not want her to know.

Even as her heart went out to him, she understood that with a boy like him, the last thing she could afford to be was a pushover. “You’re hurt,” she said firmly, brooking no argument. “I don’t know how badly. If you can help me get you to my car, I’ll take you to the hospital. If you can’t, I have to call 911.”

Fear shot into his eyes. He grabbed her hand. “Don’t call anyone,” he managed to say weakly. “I’m fine. I am.” As if to prove his words, he started to stand.

And ended up on his knees, doubled over.

Lily’s worry became panic, but she quickly got a grip on it. “You can be as pigheaded as you like, I can’t leave you here. And I won’t. When I hit you, you became my responsibility.”

He looked into her eyes. The desperation in them told her everything. “No…Forget about it. Please,” he said again, when he had caught his breath. “I’m fine. Just promise…you won’t call…anyone.”

Lily clasped her hands together, torn. The boy was in some sort of trouble, that was obvious. Running from someone or something. Maybe the law, though she doubted it. He had the look of the hunted, of the outcast. Not of the criminal.

And he was hurt. He could have internal injuries or a concussion. He was slurring his words slightly; he couldn’t even stand, he was so hurt or dizzy.

So, how could she do as he asked?

She couldn’t.

Lily came to a decision. She knew someone she could call, an old friend who wouldn’t ask any questions. But she wouldn’t share that bit of information just yet.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” she said softly. “And I won’t call anyone…if you come with me.” When he started to protest, she cut him off. “I can’t just leave you. I won’t. So those are your choices. Come with me, or I call the cops. I don’t think you have the strength to crawl far enough or fast enough to elude them. If you think I’m wrong, go ahead and give it a try.”

She took his silence for acquiescence. “I’m glad we’re in agreement about this. Now, I’m going to try to get you to your feet, then to my car. You’re going to have to help me, because I’m too old and too weak to carry you.”

She did as she said, and in moments he was on his feet, though unsteadily. “Like I said before, I live right across the street. I’m going to make sure you’re okay. You’ll be safe with me until you feel strong enough to continue on your way.”

He hesitated, as if considering fighting her, then nodded. They started for her car. With each step, he leaned more heavily on her for support, though she sensed he hated it.

It took several minutes, but finally they reached the vehicle. She helped him into the front passenger seat, then went around to the driver’s side, climbed in and started the car. She drove the two hundred or so feet to her long driveway, and turned in. Only then did she dare peek at her young, unwilling companion.

He kept his gaze trained straight ahead; he held himself tautly, as if on guard, ready to spring from the vehicle at a second’s notice. He had drawn his mouth into a tight line, and Lily sensed that it took every ounce of his strength to keep from slumping over in his seat.

Poor boy, she thought, understanding him more than he would ever have believed if she told him. She understood him because she knew what it was to be an outcast, to not belong. To be alone.

Alone, always alone.

Lily drew in a shallow, aching breath. The Lord had exacted a harsh and appropriate payment for her sins. For how much worse this earthly hell than the fires that waited could ever be.

She tightened her fingers on the steering wheel, the pain inside her a living thing, twisting and turning, squeezing at her until taking even the smallest breath hurt. Her darling Hope. Her beautiful Glory. She longed to be with them, longed to share their lives.

So much so, she had spent the entire day waiting, hoping to get just one glimpse of them. She had sat in her car, across the street from the St. Charles, alternately too warm and too cold, her gaze trained on the hotel’s grand front entrance.

It hadn’t been the first time; it wouldn’t be the last.

And this time, her wait had been rewarded. Hope and Glory had emerged from the hotel, and for one perfect moment, as the sun spilled over their faces, Lily had drowned herself in the joy of just looking at them.

Lily sucked in a sharp breath, the pain of wanting so great, she thought it would consume her. It ate at her day and night, until she felt stripped of everything but hopelessness.

She flexed her fingers. All she had ever wanted was for her daughter to have a good life, a clean life untainted by her mother’s sin. Hope had that now. And Lily understood why her daughter wanted nothing to do with her, why she had become so upset the one time Lily had approached her to beg for another chance; she understood why Hope feared association with her. After all, she had lived her life as outcast and leper.

Lily understood, too, why Hope didn’t want Glory to know her grandmother, why she was ashamed for Glory to know who—and what—her ancestors were.

Lily was ashamed, too. She despised herself for her past actions.

But understanding didn’t lessen the ache inside her. Until the day she died, she would yearn for what she could never have, she would grieve for what she had lost. And just as she would spend her last years living alone, she would die alone.

Lily drew the car to a stop at the end of her driveway. “We’re here,” she said unnecessarily. “I’ll come around for you.”

“I can make it on my own.”

“Fine.” She went around the car, anyway. He glared at her but said nothing.

Stubborn, she thought as she watched him grimace with each step. Prideful and pigheaded. But even as those descriptions moved through her head, she acknowledged admiration for the strength of will it took him to stand on his own, to refuse her help though he was hurt and no doubt frightened.

She had known others like him, had helped others like him. Kids who had no one to depend on but themselves. Kids who had been hurt and let down again and again. This boy hadn’t had anyone in his corner for a long time. She didn’t blame him his defiance; he had probably earned it.

They entered the house through the side entrance—the servants’ entrance that led into the kitchen. She flipped on the overhead light. And saw that he was bleeding. His pant leg was wet with it, the blood creating a dark, ugly stain on the thigh of his jeans.

She made a soft sound of dismay. “Sit here,” she instructed, easing him onto one of the chairs set up around the old, oak table. “I’ll get some bandages.”

He caught her hand. “You promised you wouldn’t call anyone.”

She met his eyes, a modicum of guilt easing through her. Misplaced guilt, she told herself. Her first consideration had to be his physical well-being. “I know what I promised. I’ll be right back.”

Minutes later she returned with antiseptic, bandages and a bath towel. She filled a bowl with warm, soapy water and got a washcloth. “You’ll have to take off your pants. I don’t think I’ll be able to get to the cut if you don’t.”

He flushed. “Lady, I am not taking off my pants.”

She bit back a smile at his embarrassment. It didn’t fit his tough-guy image. “I’ve seen the male of the species without their pants many times. You have nothing to fear from an old woman like me.” She held out a towel. “If it will make you feel more comfortable.”

He snatched it from her hand, and fighting a smile, she turned her back to give him a little privacy.

“Okay.”

She turned back to him. He had returned to the chair, the towel wrapped snugly around his middle. He scowled at her, and she scooped up his jeans. “I’ll just throw these in the washer. Don’t go anywhere.”

Minutes later, his jeans safely in the washer, she returned to the kitchen. He scowled at her again. “You don’t have to look so fierce, I promise I’ll give you your pants back,” she said.

Lily knelt in front of him and gently probed his wound, relieved to see that, although long, it wasn’t too deep. She dipped the washcloth in the soapy water. “This might sting. Sorry.”

“I’ll just bet you are.” He stiffened and gritted his teeth as she moved the cloth over the gash.

“A friend of mine is a retired doctor—”

“No.”

“He lives close by,” she continued, unperturbed. “If I were to tell him you’re my nephew, he would accept that. He and I share many secrets. In fact, I would trust him with my life.”

“It’s not your life you would be trusting him with.”

“You could have internal injuries. You could have a concussion, or need stitches.”

“I don’t need stitches.” He winced. “Besides, you promised you wouldn’t call anyone.”

“I know. And I’m sorry about that. But, I would rather break a promise than have you die.” She lifted her gaze to his. “You’re much too young to die.”

Panic raced into his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“My name’s Lily Pierron. You may call me Miss Lily. Or, for the next few minutes, Aunt Lily.”

“I won’t be around long enough to call you anything.” He started to stand, making a sound of pain as he put his weight on his right leg. He swore and sat back down. The front bell pealed, announcing the doctor’s arrival.

“Don’t answer that.” He caught her hand. “Please…Lily.”

She squeezed his fingers, then stood. “I’m really sorry. But, you’ll thank me for this, I promise you.”

He swore again. “And we both know how much your promises are worth, don’t we?”

She ignored both his sarcasm and the way it made her feel. “I need to know your name.”

He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Go to hell.”

The bell pealed again. “You must have a name. And if we’re to pull this off, I have to call you something. I don’t think go to hell is going to cut it.”

“Todd,” he said gruffly, not meeting her eyes. “Todd Smith.”

She nodded. “I’ll be back, Todd Smith. I hope you’re smart enough to still be here.”

Chapter 16

As soon as Lily left the kitchen, Santos stood. He looked down at himself. “Dammit.” The old lady had thoroughly outsmarted him. How far could he get not only injured, but without his pants?

“Dammit,” he said again, picturing himself limping down River Road wrapped in a bath towel. He had to trust her. Right. He’d trusted plenty in the last year and a quarter, starting with those bumbling, good-for-nothing homicide detectives. So much for trust.

Heart pounding, Santos sat back down and waited, a feeling of doom settling over him like a dark cloud. He closed his eyes, certain that in one minute a police officer would walk through the door and haul his butt back to New Orleans.

She wasn’t going to do that to him, Santos thought suddenly and with certainty. This Lily talked tough, but she had kind eyes. Something about her made him trust her instinctively.

He called himself a fool. Whether he could trust her or not, he was trapped.

She hadn’t lied. A moment later his Aunt Lily escorted an elderly man into the kitchen. Instead of a badge and a gun, he was carrying a black medical bag.

And true to her promise, the doctor played along with their story about Todd being her nephew; he asked few questions about how he’d received his injuries or about anything else.

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