Praise for

Amanda Stevens

“The sinister world of Amanda Stevens will feed

the dark side of your soul…and leave you

hungry for more.”

—New York Times bestselling author Christina Dodd

“Breathless, chilling and unforgettable.

When you crack open an Amanda Stevens book,

prepare to be thrilled.”

—USA TODAY bestselling author Patricia Kay

“Just Past Midnight is a taut and suspenseful tale

guaranteed to keep readers on the edge of their

seat. The twists and turns are diabolical,

unpredictable and chilling.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Ms. Stevens shows her magic of writing tales to

snare the reader. She weaves intrigue,

believable characters, legends and emotion

together seamlessly for an engrossing read.”

—Best Reviews on Secret Sanctuary

The Dollmaker
Amanda Stevens

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Leanne, Lucas and Steven

I am deeply grateful to my editor,

Denise Zaza, and everyone at MIRA Books

for their encouragement and support and

for helping me turn a dream into reality.

Many thanks to my agent, Helen Breitwieser,

for her advice and enthusiasm, and most of all,

for not allowing this story to fade away. Thanks

also to Carla Luan and Heather MacAllister for

their tireless brainstorming and critiquing and to

Leanne Amann for her innovative PR strategies.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Prologue

The doll was getting to him. Even though Travis McSwain wasn’t a man easily spooked. She was so lifelike that anyone glancing through the shop window might mistake her for a pretty, little, blond-haired girl.

But up close, the eyes gave her away. They looked like pieces of turquoise. Travis had never seen real eyes that color.

He didn’t like staring at her for too long because his mind kept playing tricks on him. Earlier, when he’d packed her up to bring her into the city, he could have sworn those glass eyes followed his every move. They gave him the chills so bad he’d had half a mind to chuck her in the swamp. But he needed the money and so here he was.

The shopkeeper glanced up from her inspection. “She’s stunning. Absolutely breathtaking. If you’ll just give me a few more minutes we can discuss your payment terms.”

“Take your time,” Travis muttered, but he wished to hell the woman would hurry up. The sooner he got rid of the doll the sooner he’d breathe a lot easier.

Something about that porcelain face creeped him out. It was almost as if Travis had seen her before, in a dream maybe, but he didn’t know how that could be possible. She was one of a kind.

He’d gone up to the old Sweete place looking for work, and when he spotted the doll through the front window, he’d decided to snatch her, because that’s what he did. He took things that didn’t belong to him. It was some kind of sickness, he reckoned.

Before his Pentecostal mother went off the deep end, she used to weep and pray for his immortal soul, but his daddy had favored another approach. Whenever Travis got caught using the five-finger discount, the old man would take a belt to his hide, work him over good until his back and butt cheeks resembled raw steak.

But after the first time Travis got sent off to juvenile detention in St. James Parish, Cletus McSwain’s attitude had changed. He’d pretty much washed his hands of his son. “One of these days you’ll pinch from the wrong person, boy, and end up with a bullet right between the eyeballs. And when that happens, I’ll be damned if I shed a tear over your sorry ass.”

Well, that was fair. Because Travis sure as hell hadn’t done much crying when the pious old bastard got swept off a shrimp boat and drowned in the Gulf. And now here Travis stood, right as rain, while his daddy swam with the fishes down in Terrebonne Bay.

Sometimes you just had to laugh at how things worked out.

Travis leaned an elbow on the counter and tried to assume a casual air as the shopkeeper continued to study the doll. But every once in a while, when the woman wasn’t looking, his gaze would dart to the front window. He didn’t like to put much stock in his old man’s predictions, but ever since he’d taken the doll, Travis had a real bad feeling that maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten in over his head this time. Boosting cars was one thing, but jacking that doll was starting to feel a little like kidnapping.

A shiver snaked up his spine. It was like the damn thing was hexed or something.

He fingered the mojo bag he carried around in his pocket. It’s just a toy.

But the doll was more than a toy. Everyone in Terrebonne Parish knew that Savannah Sweete’s dolls were one of a kind and worth a lot of money. And someone was going to want it back.

He cast another glance at the window. Rain was coming and the gloomy twilight deepened his unease. He was letting his nerves get the better of him, but he couldn’t seem to help it. New Orleans did that to him. He hadn’t been back since Katrina, and the landscape had changed so much he’d hardly recognized the place, driving in. But the soul of the city—the Vieux Carré—remained the same. Travis didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

Earlier, he’d walked around for a little while before his appointment with the shop owner, and he’d been struck by how normal everything seemed. Normal for the Quarter, anyway. It was still early, but the strip joints on Bourbon Street were already open, giving passersby free peep shows from the doorways. Travis’s attention had been captivated by a tall, leggy blonde undulating to a country and western song. Her back was to the door, but when she glanced over her shoulder, her dark eyes fastened like laser beams on Travis.

She was incredibly limber, and her ass and thighs were as tight as the skin on a snare drum. She smiled and curled a finger in his direction, inviting him in for a closer inspection, and Travis had been sorely tempted. But then she turned slowly to face him, and anger washed over him when he realized he’d been standing there gawking at a transvestite.

A throaty voice had said from the doorway, “Come on in, sugar, she don’t bite. Her name is Cherry Rose. You like what Cherry Rose got down there, no?”

“No,” Travis muttered, and turned away.

“Hey, don’t be like that!” the voice called after him. “Come on back here, baby. Cherry Rose make a real man out of you.”

Some of the tourists on the street overheard and started laughing, and Travis’s fist itched to connect with the he-bitch’s red mouth. But Bourbon Street drag queens were notorious for strapping switchblades to their thighs, and when they got all hopped up on speed, they’d as soon cut a man’s balls off as look at him.

So Travis had hurried away. But as he crossed the street he’d glanced back and noticed someone standing on the sidewalk, staring after him. Not the dancer or the hawker in the doorway, but a strange-looking woman wearing silver earrings and a flowing green skirt.

Something about the way she gazed at him startled Travis, and he’d paused for a moment to stare back at her. Then he lost her in the noisy crowd on the street and moved on.

He thought about the woman now and wondered where she’d gone off to, wondered if he might be able to find her once his business with the shopkeeper was settled.

Then again, maybe he ought to leave well enough alone and get his ass on home, where he could tell what was what. But after taking that doll, Terrebonne Parish might not be the safest place for him right now.

Suppressing a shudder, he said impatiently, “Don’t mean to rush you, ma’am, but I ain’t got all night.”

The woman looked up with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for making you wait, dear, but I rarely come across workmanship of this quality. The freckles across the nose…the tiny birthmark on her left arm…that kind of attention to detail is a Savannah Sweete trademark. I just can’t get over how meticulous she is.”

“Uh-huh.”

“However…” The woman’s tone sharpened, as if she was readying herself to get down to business. She was an old broad with steely blue eyes and cottony hair. Her glasses were the shape of cat’s eyes, and as she spoke, she kept slipping them off and chewing on one of the stems.

Travis frowned. “What’s wrong? You don’t like her so much all of a sudden?”

“No, it isn’t that. As I said, the doll is beautiful. But there are some fairly convincing imitations making the rounds these days. A few of Savannah’s former students have mastered her technique, and I know of one or two who have actually tried to pass off their work as hers.” The woman paused, her gaze dropping to the doll. “Do you have the certificate of authenticity?”

Travis had thought that might be a problem, but he was prepared to bluff his way through it. After all, bullshitting was second nature to him. Just like stealing. “If you’re the expert you claim to be, you should be able to tell just by looking at her that she’s the real deal.” He reached out and flipped one of the doll’s golden curls with his fingertip. “You said yourself you’ve never seen such quality.”

The woman slid the glasses up her nose and bent back over the doll. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain she’s genuine, but if you could obtain her paperwork, the value would double.”

“Sorry, but I’m offering her as is. You don’t want her, I’ll go elsewhere. I figure there’s plenty of shops and private collectors out there who’d like to get their hands on a fine piece like this.”

“Perhaps. But you have to understand my position. My livelihood hinges on my reputation. If you could at least tell me how and where you acquired her…?”

Travis didn’t like the sound of that. The last thing he needed was for the old biddy to call the cops. “Why do you need to know that?”

“As I said, I have a reputation to consider. I have to be cautious.”

This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped. The woman was playing hardball and he now had two options. Stay and haggle or take the doll and walk. By this time tomorrow he’d probably have another buyer, but he didn’t much like the notion of driving all the way back home, knowing those glass eyes would be watching him another night.

“Okay, it’s like this. The doll belonged to my girl-friend’s kid. The little girl up and died suddenly, and my old lady can’t have a reminder like that lying around the house. She asked me to get rid of it for her. Considering everything she’s been through, I don’t see how I can worry her about the paperwork. You understand.”

“Of course I do. How awful to lose a child. And one so beautiful.” She stroked the doll’s smooth check. “I have two little granddaughters. I can’t imagine anything more tragic—”

“So we got us a deal or what?”

The shopkeeper’s attention lingered on the doll. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away. “Cut ten percent off the price we discussed on the phone and we’ll call it a day.”

“Sounds fair enough.”

She smiled, satisfied. “Good. If you’ll wait here, I’ll write you a check.”

Travis’s hand snaked out to curl around her wrist. “Like I said earlier, I’m partial to cash.”

The woman’s eyes flickered. He could see suspicion working its way back to the surface, but she wanted the doll so bad she was willing to ignore her instincts. She shook off his hand and gave a curt nod. “I’ll be right back.”

She reappeared a few moments later and handed him an envelope. “It’s all there—the amount we agreed on earlier, less ten percent. But feel free to count it, Mr….”

Travis pocketed the envelope with a grin. “I trust you. Besides, if you short me I know where to find you.”

The woman’s hand fluttered to her throat and she turned a little pale, as if suddenly realizing that she’d just struck a bargain with the devil.

Lady, if you only knew.

She followed him to the door and after he stepped outside, he heard the click of the dead bolt behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the woman’s silhouette in the window, but she quickly shut off the light and pulled the shade.

Travis stood on the sidewalk for a moment, deciding whether he wanted to go straight home or stop off somewhere for a drink. It wasn’t often he had spare change in his pocket. Might as well do a little celebrating.

Across the street, a shadow darted into a doorway, and his heart raced. For a moment he thought it was the woman he’d seen earlier on Bourbon Street, but as he peered into the shadows, he couldn’t make her out.

He was seeing things, probably. A guilty conscience could make a man jumpy.

Whatever the hell was wrong with him, he couldn’t wait to get out of New Orleans. Too many weirdos hanging around to suit him. He’d leave the city before having that drink. Maybe stop off at a little place he knew on the way home, buy a bucket of shrimp and have a few beers. Later he’d make a liquor store run with Desiree, and the two of them could sit out on his back porch getting shit-faced as they watched heat lightning over the Gulf.

It all sounded good.

Hunching his shoulders against a light rain, he headed east toward Bourbon Street. At the corner of Chartres and St. Louis, a group of tourists had stopped to watch an old black man tap-dance beneath a balcony. The rat-a-tat-tat of his shoes resonated in the darkness, and for some reason the sound made Travis feel lonely.

He stopped to stuff a couple of bills into a beat-up coffee can, then quickly moved on, discomforted by the man’s toothless grin. The old geezer looked to be pushing eighty. He should have been tucked away somewhere in a rest home instead of busting his hump on a street corner in the rain. But that was New Orleans for you. The old didn’t die here. They were just forgotten.

“You don’t get yourself straightened out, that’ll be you someday, boy,” he could hear his daddy goad him.

Travis didn’t want to think about his father or the future or even what he was going to do with himself beyond the next drunk. He tuned out the echo of the old man’s taps as he neared the cathedral and turned up St. Peter.

The street was nearly deserted here except for a woman who stood in the glow of a shop window. She wore a green skirt, and when she moved her head, light sparked off her silver earrings.

Travis slowed his steps. She was the same woman he’d seen earlier on Bourbon Street.

Their gazes connected as he approached, and a shiver slid up his spine. She had the palest face he’d ever laid eyes on. He knew he’d never seen her before tonight, but there was something eerily familiar about her features. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

She smiled, and the skin at the back of his neck crawled. Who the hell was she?

Spooked by that smile, Travis decided to keep on walking, but as he passed her, she said in a low voice, “Can I trouble you for a light?”

Not exactly an original line, but curiosity got the better of him and he reached in his pocket for a lighter. Turning, he shielded the flame with his cupped hand as she lifted a cigarette to her lips. They were nice lips. Not too full, not too thin. It was only when she smiled that something seemed off about her mouth.

She took a pull and slowly exhaled the smoke, then handed the cigarette to Travis. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it, but when he took a drag, she didn’t seem to mind.

“So what are you doing out here all by your lonesome?” he asked.

“Killing time.”

“Kind of dangerous to be here alone. Nothing but freaks in the Quarter.”

She smiled. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

That smile. Travis wished she’d stop doing that. It wasn’t a nice smile and it kind of ruined the mood for him. He glanced away.

“Do you like to party?” she asked.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“My place is just back there.” She nodded toward a narrow alley that ran between two buildings. “Got a nice little courtyard where we can sit and watch the rain. Come on,” she said, and started walking. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

Her smile might not do anything for him, but the way she walked sure as hell did. Travis followed her into the alley. He didn’t know if she was a hooker or just some bitch out for a good time, but at the moment, he didn’t really give a shit. The money he’d made from the doll was burning a hole in his pocket.

She was a few steps ahead of him, humming something under her breath.

“What’s that you’re singing?”

“It’s an old song. Something my mother used to sing to me at bedtime.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He hurried to catch up with her. “My mama didn’t believe in music. Or dancing.”

“How sad for you.” She paused to adjust the strap on her sandal, and when she lost her balance, she grabbed Travis’s arm to right herself.

He stared down at her in the darkness. She laughed softly, and the next thing Travis knew, he had her backed up against the brick wall.

She laughed again, a breathy sound that spiked his heartbeat. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head so that his lips only grazed her pale cheek. He moved to her ear, then nuzzled her neck as he put a hand on her narrow waist, letting his thumb slide up beneath her breast. She was small there, too, but he didn’t mind. “What’s your name?”

After a slight hesitation, she said in a husky whisper, “Madeline.”

“That’s a nice name.” Travis figured she’d made it up on the spur of the moment, but he didn’t care if she had. After tonight, they’d never see each other again, anyway. “You smell good, Madeline.”

He again tried to kiss her, but she gave him a playful shove. “Take it easy, okay? We’ve got all night. Don’t you want that drink first?”

He rubbed up against her, grinding his hips against hers. “You know what I want.”

“Sure I do, baby.” Her hand slid between them and she ran it up and down his fly. “But it’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and fifty.” Her hand squeezed him. “You got that much?”

He fished in his pocket for the money and handed it to her in the dark. “For that kind of dough, you better be something special.”

“Oh, I am.” She slipped the folded bills into her bra. “I’m very special. You’ve never been with anyone like me before, honey.”

Reversing their positions, she pushed him up against the wall, then wet a finger in her mouth and traced his lips. “You want it fast or slow?”

“Right now, I want you on your knees,” he said, and unzipped his pants.

“Patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait.” Her fingers closed around him as she slid her other hand over his shoulder.

Travis let his head fall back against the brick wall, his breath quickening as he swelled in her hand. An instant later, he felt a sharp sting in the side of his neck, and pushed her away. “What the hell was that?”

She smiled in the dark. “You’re going to need something for the pain.”

“Pain?” His voice rose in fury as he lifted a hand to his neck. “What did you do to me, you fucking bitch?” Light from an apartment overhead filtered into the alley, and he could see her eyes staring back at him. He hadn’t noticed before how blue they were. And then in a flash, it came to him where he’d seen that face before.

Fear and revulsion rose in his throat a split second before his muscles collapsed. He tried to stay on his feet, tried to grab her around the throat, but he had no control over his limbs. He fell to his knees, his gaze locked on hers. His mouth gaped open, but no sound came out.

“You took something of mine and now I’m going to have to do some very bad things to get her back.”

With a foot on his chest, she shoved him backward. Paralyzed, he fell to the dirty pavement, his gaze fixed on those blue eyes.

She removed a scalpel from her bag and knelt beside him. “This is going to be a little crude and messy, I’m afraid, but I can’t have the police tracing you or the doll back to me.”

A fresh wave of terror washed over Travis. He wanted to get up and run. He wanted to scream for help. He wanted to fight for his life.

But he could only lie there helplessly as she lowered the blade and began to cut off his fingers.

One

Twilight always fell anxiously over the Big Easy, especially when it rained. That’s when the ghosts came out. A wisp of steam rising from the wet pavement. The murmur of voices from a hidden courtyard. Something dark and stealthy moving in the shadows, and suddenly you were reminded of a past that wouldn’t stay buried.

New Orleans was like that. A city of memories, Dave Creasy always called it. A city of secrets and whispers and the kind of regret that could eat a man up inside. Like the wrong woman, she’d get in a man’s blood, destroy his soul, make him feel alive and dead at the same time. And on a hot, rainy night—when the ghosts came out—it could be the loneliest place on earth.

Welcome back, a voice whispered in Dave’s head as he lifted his face, eyes closed, and listened to the rustle of rain through the white oleanders that drooped over a crumbling brick wall along St. Peters.

It was strange how the city could still seduce him. He’d been born and raised in New Orleans, and like everyone else he knew, there’d been a time when he couldn’t wait to get out. Now he couldn’t seem to stay away. The ghosts wouldn’t let him.

A car slowed on the street in front of him, and a child stared out at him from a rain-streaked window. She looked a little like Ruby, and Dave watched her until the car was out of sight, the pain in his chest as familiar now as his heartbeat. Then he started walking.

Around the next corner, a neon half-moon sputtered in the gathering darkness. He wanted to think of the light as a beacon, but he knew better. The Crescent City Bar could never in a million years be considered a haven. Not for him, at least.

As he entered the room, an infinitesimal chill slid over him. Welcome back, that taunting voice whispered again.

The bar was nearly empty. A handful of zombielike patrons sat with heads bowed over drinks, the only acknowledgment of their coexistence a mingling of cigarette smoke that drifted up from the tables. The old wood blades of the ceiling fans rotated overhead, barely stirring warm air that reeked of sweat, booze and despair.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

Dave took a seat at the end of the bar, where he could watch the door. He hadn’t been a cop for nearly seven years, but old habits died hard.

From the other end, the hulk of a bartender watched him with open suspicion. He was tall and tough, with skin the texture of leather. Jubal Roach had to be at least sixty, but the forearms underneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves bulged with muscle, and his sullen expression reflected, as Dave knew only too well, a still-murderous disposition.

Dave’s old partner had once warned him about Jubal’s temper. They’d stopped in for a beer after their watch one night and the surly bartender had copped an attitude from the get-go. Back in the day, Dave hadn’t been one to turn the other cheek.

“Man, let it go,” Titus had said in a nervous whisper. “You don’t want to tangle with that S.O.B. Once he start in whaling on you, he like a big ’ol loggerhead. He ain’t gonna let you go till it thunders. Or till you dead.”

It was good advice. Too bad Dave hadn’t had the sense to heed it.

He and Jubal played the staring game for several more seconds, then, with a hardening of his features, the older man ambled down to Dave’s end of the bar.

“Jubal.” Dave greeted him warily, mindful of the nightstick and brass knuckles the bartender kept under the counter. “How’s it going?”

“Dave Creasy. Been a while since I saw your ugly mug in here. Kinda thought you might be dead.”

Kinda hoped was the inference. “I bought a place in St. Mary Parish awhile back.”

“Same difference, you ask me.” Jubal got down a glass and a bottle of whiskey. “The usual?”

“Nah, I’m on the wagon these days.”

“Since when?”

Eight months, four days, nine hours and counting. “Since the last time I got thrown in jail for disorderly conduct.”

Jubal’s gold tooth flashed in the light from the Abita Purple Haze sign over the bar.

Dave touched the area over his left eye. His memories of that night had faded, but the scar hadn’t. It had taken him two days to get out of the drunk tank, another five before he’d stumbled into the nearest emergency room with a raging fever. The infection had laid him flat for nearly two weeks, and by the time he got out of the hospital, fifteen pounds lighter, a jagged scar was the least of his worries.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eye,” the young intern had scolded him. “However, at the moment, I’m more concerned about your liver. You have what is known as alcohol hepatitis, which can be treated but only if alcohol consumption is stopped. Otherwise, this condition is likely to cause cirrhosis, Mr. Creasy,” he’d stated bluntly. “If you don’t stop drinking, there’s a good chance you won’t make it to your fortieth birthday.”

Dave wasn’t particularly worried about dying, but he would prefer not to go out the way his old man had. So he’d stopped drinking…again, started going back to AA, and he’d moved down to Morgan City to work part-time for his uncle while reopening Creasy Investigations. Marsilius had found him a little house on the bayou where he could live and set up shop until he was able to afford office space in town. The only problem with that arrangement was that his uncle now considered it his moral duty to keep Dave on the straight and narrow.

As if testing Dave’s resolve, Jubal poured a shot of Jack Daniel’s and slid the tumbler across the bar. “First one’s on the house. For old times’ sake.”

“No thanks, but I’ll take a cup of that coffee I smell brewing.”

“Suit yourself.” Jubal filled a cup and passed it to Dave. “If you’re not drinking, what brings you in here?”

“I’m meeting someone.” Dave lifted the cup and took a sip of the strong chicory blend. The coffee was hot. It scalded his tongue and he swore as the front door swung open. And in walked Angelette Lapierre.

She stood in the doorway taking stock of the room just as she always did. That was Dave’s first memory of her, the way she’d planted herself on the threshold of the captain’s office, her gaze sweeping the room as the group of homicide detectives huddled over a map had looked up with a collective indrawn breath.

Dave had been married back then and in love with his wife, but he couldn’t help noticing Angelette. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, she’d had that dog-in-heat quality that drew men to her side and made any woman unfortunate enough to be in the same room dislike her on sight.

Dave had tried to ignore her, but later in the crowded squad room, he’d glanced up to find her watching him, and her slow smile had sent a shiver down his backbone. Something that might have been a warning glinted in her sultry eyes that day, and Dave would later wish that he’d taken heed of it.

But instead, he’d told himself there was no harm in looking. What Claire didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Claire.

Dave winced at the memory. He didn’t want to think about her at that moment. He didn’t want to think about her ever. She was a part of his past. One of the ghosts that came out to haunt him on rainy summer nights.

But he couldn’t help himself. He closed his eyes briefly as an image of his ex-wife appeared in his head. She wasn’t as curvy or as beautiful as Angelette, but her appeal was far more dangerous because she was the kind of woman you could never get out of your system. No matter how much you drank.

As if she was reading his mind, Angelette’s expression hardened. Her gaze seemed to pierce right through him, and then she blinked and the daggers were gone. The familiar smile flashed, dazzled, even as her chin lifted in defiance.

Same old Angelette.

She wore a blue dress, transparent from where she stood in the doorway. Jubal leaned an elbow on the bar and swore under his breath. Together he and Dave watched her walk with fluid grace to the stool next to Dave’s, a whiff of something seductive preceding her.

Still smiling, she placed her purse on the bar and crossed her legs, letting that blue dress skate up her slender thighs.

“I don’t want no trouble,” Jubal warned.

She tossed back her dark hair and laughed. “I don’t want any trouble, either.”

“You start throwing beer bottles like you did last time, I’m calling the law on both of you.”

“I am the law, remember?” She laughed again, but her amusement didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just relax, okay? Dave and I kissed and made up a long time ago. Didn’t we, Dave?”

“If you say so.” He was all for letting bygones be bygones, but when Angelette leaned over to brush her lips against his, he couldn’t help tensing.

Her gaze lit on the scar above his eye. “Wow. Did I do that?”

“Better than a tattoo.”

“Speaking of tattoos…I got myself a new one. Remind me to show it to you sometime.”

Dave let that one go. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, as Marsilius frequently pointed out, but he’d learned his lesson with Angelette.

Not getting the response she wanted, she turned to Jubal. “Double whiskey.”

There was something about Angelette that Dave hadn’t remembered from before. She’d always had an edge. Had always been able to give as good as she got. An ambitious female detective had to know how to handle herself in a man’s world. But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t her years as a cop that had given her face a brittle veneer. It was selling out. Being on the take for too long had chipped away at her sensuality and left in its wake something hard and unpleasant and faintly decadent.

Dave cradled his cup, gratified to note that his hands no longer trembled. He hadn’t felt this steady in years. “So how did the anger management classes go?” He knew the question was likely to set her off. Angelette didn’t like being called on her bullshit—by him or by the judge who’d ordered her into the classes—but Dave couldn’t resist goading her a little.

She surprised him. Instead of rising to the bait, she gave an airy wave with one hand as she lifted her drink with the other. “Oh, I finished up months ago. You’re looking at the new and improved Angelette. What do you think?”

“Not bad.”

One brow lifted as her eyes seemed to challenge him. Not bad? There was a time when you couldn’t keep your hands off me, you bastard. “You’re not faring too badly yourself. You’ve put on a little weight, but it suits you. I was never all that partial to scrawny guys. A girl has to have something to hang on to, right, Jubal?” She gave the bartender a wink.

The older man glared at her with open suspicion. “You want another drink?”

“Oui, bien sûr.” She waited for him to pour the whiskey, then picked up her glass. “Let’s move over to a booth.” She slid off the stool, and as she turned, her full breasts brushed up against Dave’s arm for a split second before she moved away.

He got up and, taking his coffee with him, followed her to a back booth. By the time he sat down, she’d already finished her second drink.

“Maybe you ought to ease up on the hooch.”

“What is that? A friendly piece of advice from one drunk to another?” Her face was flushed and her voice sounded strained as she folded her arms on the table.

Something was wrong. Dave could feel it. Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. Instead, she watched the steam rising from his cup that drifted up between them.

“What did you want to see me about?”

Her gaze darted to the front door, and Dave noticed that she’d chosen a booth where they both had a view of the entrance. He’d taught her that. The things she’d taught him didn’t come in so handy these days.

“I’m seeing someone. I wanted you to hear it from me first.” She ran a fingernail around the rim of her empty glass and Dave could tell she wanted another drink. He knew that feeling, that hunger. It was like a needy old friend you could never get rid of.

He waited for a moment, thinking he might feel a twinge of regret at her news, but no. Not even a flicker of relief. He just didn’t care anymore. “Is it serious?”

“Who knows?” Angelette shook out a cigarette and lit up. The smoke mingled with the steam from his coffee, softening her features and making her face seem almost vulnerable, but Dave knew better than to believe in a mirage. “We’re taking things slow for now. Something you and I should have done, I guess.” She propped an elbow on the table, letting the Camel smolder between her fingers. “Never was anything slow about you, Dave.”

“Most men wouldn’t take that as a compliment.”

“But you’re not most men, now are you?” She gave him a dark smile. “We both liked it fast, didn’t we? And often.”

Her lowered voice conjured images best left in the past. Seedy motel rooms. The hood of his car. A deserted road with the smell of the river drifting in through the open windows.

“We were good for a while, baby. You can’t deny that.” She reached for his hand, but Dave pulled his away.

“Tell me about your new guy. Anyone I know?”

“It’s Lee Elliot.”

Dave was caught off guard by the name. The conservative Orleans Parish district attorney hardly seemed suited to Angelette’s free spirit, but then Elliot came from old money and that would most definitely appeal to her.

“Are you impressed?”

“Have to say that I am. Does he know about the payoffs?”

“I’m clean these days, Dave. I swear. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just keep your mouth shut about the past. I kind of like the idea of a stable relationship for a change and I don’t want you ruining this for me.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Besides, I don’t exactly operate in Elliot’s circle.”

“No, but Claire’s sister does.”

“I don’t talk to Claire’s family. You know that.”

“I thought things might be different now.”

“You mean because I’m not seeing you anymore?”

Angelette took a quick drag on her cigarette. “I did wonder.”

“Claire and I are over,” Dave said slowly. “We’ve been over for a long time. You know she’s remarried.” And wasn’t it pretty damn remarkable how he was able to say it without punching a wall or shattering a window?

But the outbursts of temper and the drunken brawls were behind him. Dave had accepted his life for the way it was, and he’d finally figured out there was no profit in dwelling on what he’d lost.

He could almost hear his AA sponsor coaxing him: Say it with me, Dave. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

A nice sentiment, but it didn’t mean shit when you were lying facedown in a gutter.

“You said there were two reasons why you wanted to see me. What’s the other?”

Angelette’s gaze flashed to the door again. Dave wondered if she was expecting someone. Her nerves were right beneath the surface and he couldn’t help wondering why. “This conversation is going to stay between us, right?”

“Sure.”

She waited a moment longer, then slid the empty glass aside. “Have you been following the Losier case?”

“The murdered Tulane student? Hard not to. Her picture’s been plastered all over the news for weeks.” Nina Losier’s girl-next-door looks had captured the public’s attention, but after nearly a month with no arrests and nothing new to report, media interest was starting to wane. A sure sign the investigation was going nowhere. Dave had learned that lesson the hard way.

Angelette blew a stream of smoke from the corner of her mouth. “The father is looking to hire a P.I. I told him about you.”

“Since when does NOPD recommend a private dick for an active investigation?”

“Since it’s not my case.” She grinned, but her eyes were sober as she gazed across the table at him. “Let’s just say the official investigation has run into some problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“There’s a lot about this case that hasn’t been released to the public. Nina Losier was from a wealthy family in Baton Rouge. Her father has a lot of political clout and NOPD has been pressured to keep certain aspects of the investigation out of the news.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact that when Nina wasn’t in class, she sometimes danced at a strip club on Bourbon Street. The Gold Medallion.” Angelette paused. “That’s where Renee Savaria worked, isn’t it?”

Dave suddenly realized how badly he wanted a drink. It hit him like that sometimes. Everything would be going along fine, and then bam. A face, a memory…even a name could smash his control all to hell.

The Savaria homicide was the last case he’d worked before his resignation. He’d been knee-deep in the investigation when his daughter went missing. Snatched in broad daylight as she rode her new bicycle up and down the sidewalk in front of their home.

Images were already flashing in Dave’s head. The kind of visions that had made him reach for a bottle—or his gun—on more sleepless nights than he cared to remember.

Ruby had been seven when she was taken. Just seven years old.

“If Nina Losier comes from the kind of background you say she does, how’d she end up stripping on Bourbon Street?”

“You make it sound like she was an anomaly, but rich girls slumming to embarrass their powerful daddies is nothing new in this town.”

“What about leads?”

“One dead end after another, just like the Savaria case. I remember how frustrated you were back then. You told me once it was like beating your head against a stone wall. Then all of a sudden you turned up a new lead. You thought you were getting close to a breakthrough when Ruby went missing. Maybe you were getting a little too close.”

For a moment Dave felt as if the air had been squeezed from his lungs. He’d never told anyone about those phone calls, not even Angelette. She couldn’t know about the missing page from the dead woman’s diary, either. No one knew about that except Dave and Renee Savaria’s murderer.

He’d destroyed evidence in a homicide investigation in order to save his daughter’s life, but Ruby hadn’t been returned as promised. Instead, her trail had grown cold while Dave collaborated with a killer.

A muscle in his jaw began to throb. Seven years and the guilt was still as fresh and deep as the day he’d answered Claire’s frantic phone call.

Angelette’s eyes searched his face. “I always wondered if there was a link between Renee Savaria’s murder and Ruby’s kidnapping. I think you did, too.”

Dave looked down at his hands. They weren’t trembling, but his fingers had curled so tight, his knuckles whitened. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. It’s all in the past.”

“A guy like you lives in the past.”

“Not anymore.”

“I call bullshit on that.”

Dave shrugged.

“After you left, the active investigations on your desk fell through the cracks. Nobody wanted to get tainted by your bad karma. So the Savaria case has been sitting in the cold case files all this time, and the way I see it, that old unfinished business has been eating away at you for too damn long. Maybe it’s time for a little closure.”

Dave wanted to believe it was as simple as that, but Angelette never did anything without demanding something in return. “What are you really after, Angie?”

“Nothing. I owe you one, that’s all.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?”

She looked hurt. “Hey, I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t exactly conducted myself like a Girl Scout in the past, but I’m still a cop and, believe it or not, I’d like to see justice done. Renee Savaria and Nina Losier got in over their heads at that club. Drugs, prostitution…God knows what else. But that doesn’t mean they deserved what happened to them. And your little girl sure as hell didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

Angelette leaned toward him. “What if I tell you I can put a copy of the case file in your hands? Would you be willing to at least take a look?”

“You sure you want to risk your career over this one?”

“You let me worry about my career. I know what I’m doing. You game or not?”

“I’ll take a look at what you’ve got, but I’m not promising anything.”

“Fair enough. You don’t like what you see, you walk away and that’s that. We don’t mention it again.” She gathered up her purse and stood. “Give me a call when you decide something. Or better yet, drop by the Monteleone on Saturday night. Graydon Losier is making an appearance at Lee’s fund-raiser. I’ll see that you get an introduction.”

She started toward the door, then turned back. “One other thing I forgot to mention.” She leaned over the table to slowly grind out her cigarette. “I’ve been hearing some talk around town. Claire and Alex Girard…they’ve split up. Not that you give a shit about your ex-wife, right, Dave?”

Two

The Dollmaker had been working steadily ever since he returned home from New Orleans a few hours ago, but he wasn’t happy with his progress. For one thing, the smile was all wrong. The shape of the jaw, the angle of the nose…everything about her eluded him tonight.

His hand tightened on the knife, but instead of slicing away the offending features as he usually did, he took a step back from his work and drew a calming breath. He was letting anger and fear interfere with his concentration, and for him that could be a very dangerous thing. He needed to get his emotions under control before he did something rash. Something he might live to regret.

He sucked in more air, but the breathing exercises weren’t working this time. The voice inside his head kept needling him.

She’s gone, you fool! And it’s all your fault. You lost her!

“I didn’t lose her,” he muttered. “She was taken.”

Because you were so careless!

He couldn’t deny that. Leaving her alone had been imprudent, to say the least, but he’d been called away on an emergency and hadn’t taken the time to lock her up before he rushed out. When he came home hours later, she was missing.

Snatched in broad daylight from her home.

A part of him wanted to appreciate the irony even as his conscience continued to berate him. He’d flown under the radar of the local authorities and even the FBI for so long, he’d become too complacent, even a bit reckless at times. It had all been so easy until now, and he wondered if he should regard this as a test. How he conducted himself could be crucial.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I know where she is. I’ll get her back.”

By this time tomorrow she would be home where she belonged. In the meantime, he had plenty to do to keep busy.

With an effort, he relaxed his grip on the knife. Everything would be okay if he just kept his cool. After all, there was no way now that she could be traced back to him. He’d seen to that. And even if someone came sniffing around, he wouldn’t draw attention. He’d learned at an early age the advantage of maintaining a low profile. Nothing in his appearance or lifestyle would ever arouse suspicion. He even wore contacts in addition to his glasses to subdue the color of his blue eyes so they wouldn’t be remembered. He was the very epitome of decorum.

Everything was fine. The party would go off without a hitch. All he had to do was close his eyes and remember Maddy’s face.

If only it were that simple. But even with the old photograph he’d squirreled away years ago, he’d always had a difficult time reconstructing her winsome features.

Not that he wasn’t talented enough. He was quite gifted, in fact, and he’d learned from a master. But for the Maddy doll and for the others in his private collection, each and every detail had to be perfect. Such precision could be maddening without a live model, but he wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. For Maddy’s sake, he had to keep trying. He owed her that much.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the shivering to pass, and then, wielding the sculptor’s knife as precisely as a scalpel, he set to work remolding the delicate features one sliver at a time until the lovely little face seemed to take on a life of its own.

“You’re in there,” he whispered. “I can feel you….”

He kept at it for a long time, refusing to stop even when his fingers became so cramped that every stroke of the blade was agony. Clay molds and sketches cluttered the studio, and as the evening hours turned into early morning, the disorder subtly wore on his nerves. Even the orchid he’d placed on the corner of his worktable drooped from neglect, and that wasn’t like him.

Ever since the doll had been stolen, his regimen had been severely disrupted. Normally he nurtured his orchids just as he pampered himself. He was accustomed to showering several times a day when his schedule permitted, and he kept his clothes pristine, his hair trimmed just so. He strove for nothing less than perfection in his personal appearance and in his surroundings. But until he had her back—one way or another—he wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep, much less indulge himself in his time-consuming routine.

He stepped away from his workbench and studied the doll’s features yet again. Better. Almost there…but not quite…

Something was missing.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung on the wall across the room, and froze, arrested as he always was by the sight of his own reflection. The man who stared back at him still seemed a stranger. Brownish-blond curls. Blue eyes rimmed with thick lashes. A rather weak jawline, but the mouth was good and the complexion was to die for. Not a single blemish or mole to mar his smooth skin. No morning shadow, either. He almost looked airbrushed.

But his new glasses would take some getting used to. They gave him a bookish air that wasn’t to his liking, but for now the look suited his purposes.

Unable to resist, he walked over to the mirror for a closer scrutiny. Turning first one way then the other, he frowned. His nose was still not right, but the cartilage was too weak for another surgery. He supposed he would have to make do with what he had.

He removed his glasses because his eyes looked bluer without them, and when he smiled a certain way, his dimples flashed sweetly. He’d practiced that smile for years.

Yes, when he smiled in just that way, he could almost catch a glimpse of her….

“You’re in there,” he whispered to his reflection. “I can feel you.”

He lifted the blade to his face, the compulsion to peel away the flesh until he found what he needed almost irresistible. After all, he was no stranger to the knife. His body had been carved and mutilated so badly that his distaste for his own appearance sometimes forced him to use a sponge and gloves to clean himself in the shower. But no matter how often he washed, he couldn’t scrub away the scars. He couldn’t rinse away the memories.

“Why did you have to die?” he whispered.

Because you let me.

His voice became petulant. “But I was just a child.”

You should have found a way to stop him.

“I’ve stopped him now.”

Too late.

“It’s not too late. You’re not dead. You’re just…hiding.”

Then come and find me.

He leaned closer, searching and searching his reflection until the ringing of his cell phone jarred him. He didn’t want to answer it. He hated disturbances while he worked, but his concentration was already broken. Fetching the phone from his jacket pocket, he checked the caller ID and, recognizing the number of the nursing home, didn’t bother to answer.

Tossing the phone aside, he returned to the unfinished doll and placed a gentle hand on her sculpted head. “I have to go out for a while, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Leaving the door to the studio open, he hurried up the steps to the kitchen to fix a tray. He toasted bread and poured a bowl of cereal, then, once he had the dishes and silverware arranged just so, carried everything back down the steps and placed the tray on his worktable while he unlocked and slid open a hidden compartment in one wall. He bent down to peer inside.

The lights were out. He couldn’t see anything in the shadowy room, but he knew she was already awake because he could hear her whimpers. The sound irritated him. So did her persistence.

I want to go home.

She must have said it a hundred times already. They all did. And his answer was always the same.

You can’t go home. Not until after the party.

Slipping the tray through the opening, he waited a moment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but when she didn’t appear, he shut the compartment and locked it without a word, then hung the key on a peg near the door.

If he’d learned anything in the past seven years it was that even the most stubborn girl would eventually eat when she got hungry.

Three

The dark clouds piling up over the Gulf of Mexico brought an early twilight to the city, but Claire Doucett barely noticed the sporadic raindrops that splashed against her cotton blouse as she hurried along the sidewalk. Her gaze was fastened on a group of teenage girls in front of her, and as they stopped to admire something in a shop window, she paused, too, her heart beating a painful staccato inside her chest. Their backs were to her, but when the one in the middle turned just so…dear God, she looked like Ruby.

At least the way Claire imagined her daughter would look at fourteen. The way she appeared in the age-progressed photo created by a forensic artist at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

She would be tall like her dad, but with Claire’s thin stature and her grandmother Lucille’s golden ringlets.

The girl in front of her shook her head and her blond curls shifted against her narrow back. She wore shorts and flip-flops, and her legs were long and tanned and gorgeous. Her laughter drifted back to Claire, sending a fine chill along her spine, and her heart started to beat even harder. There was something so sweet and innocent and familiar about that sound.

Claire closed her eyes and tried to conjure Ruby’s laugh. It was getting harder and harder to do. After seven years, the memories were sometimes elusive.

But, no, there it was…the image of a two-year-old Ruby at the zoo, tugging on Claire’s hand as she laughed up at her. “Bears, Mama!”

Even as a toddler, Ruby had been such a happy child. Sweet and tenderhearted, and yet so willful and stubborn at times that Claire’s patience had been sorely tested.

“That child would argue with a fence post,” Claire’s mother used to say with an exaggerated sigh.

“Yes, and I wonder who she gets that from,” Claire would counter.

Secretly, Claire had been grateful that her daughter inherited more of Lucille’s disposition than hers. Claire was too much like her moody father, although she hoped to God she never succumbed to the same demons that had driven him to suicide when she was just a baby.

Even in her deepest despair after Ruby’s kidnapping, Claire had never contemplated taking her own life, and for one good reason—she’d never given up hope that her daughter would someday come home to her. The flame had grown dimmer with each passing year, but on days like today, the glimpse of a familiar face on a crowded street could rekindle her faith, and she’d find herself indulging in the same old fantasy.

Ruby was still alive and she’d been happy and healthy all these years. A childless couple had seen her riding her bike on the sidewalk that day and had been enchanted by her blond curls and sunny smile.

They’d taken her home with them, loved her as if she was their very own, and in time, Ruby had responded to their kindness and affection. In time, she’d adjusted to her new home, and for the past seven years, she’d led a perfectly normal life. Maybe she no longer even remembered her real family. Her real mother.

Claire blinked back unexpected tears.

The fantasy was just that. Nothing more than a wishful daydream that had helped sustain her through some of her darkest days. And the girl on the street in front of her wasn’t Ruby. The likelihood of her daughter still being alive was miniscule. To even consider for a moment that Ruby might have been in New Orleans all this time, that fate would have miraculously brought them together on this very street, was ludicrous.

And yet…

Claire whispered her daughter’s name. The sound slipped through her lips as a plea.

The girl turned, as if responding to the soft entreaty, and Claire saw her clearly for the first time. The girl’s face split into a broad smile, and Claire’s breath caught. Everything around her seemed to still. The noise from the street faded, and the palm fronds and banana trees in a nearby courtyard stood motionless in the heat, as if nature itself was holding a breath.

And then Claire exhaled in a painful rush. It wasn’t Ruby. Of course it wasn’t Ruby. But for that one fleeting moment when their gazes touched, Claire had a glimpse of what it might be like to see her daughter’s face again after all these years.

The girl’s attention moved past her and she waved at someone behind Claire. Someone who had called out her name.

Megan. The girl’s name was Megan. Not Ruby.

Claire glanced at her reflection in a store window, saw the pinched look on her face, the whitened knuckles where her hand gripped her purse strap, and slowly she let out another breath.

Ruby was dead and she wasn’t coming back. She’d been taken from the sidewalk in front of their home while riding her bike, the victim of an abduction that had never been solved. Claire knew the statistics. Her daughter had probably been dead within the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after she’d been grabbed, her body discarded in some remote field or shallow grave, where she had been lying all these years. Alone.

Claire put a hand to her mouth. Tears scalded her eyes, but she held them back as she scoured the street in front of her. The girl and her friends had scurried beneath an awning to get out of the drizzle. Claire deliberately turned and started walking in the opposite direction.

“Did you hear about the body they found in the Quarter?” Charlotte LeBlanc asked casually when she and Claire met a few minutes later at their designated rendezvous.

“I saw it on the local news before I left the house this morning. Do the police know who did it?”

Claire’s sister was an assistant D.A. for Orleans Parish and usually had an open pipeline to the police department, but she shook her head. “They think it was probably drug-related. So far they haven’t even been able to identify the body. Poor bastard was sliced up pretty bad. All his fingers were missing.”

Claire shuddered. “I don’t know how you do it, dealing with that kind of violence on a daily basis. I think it would start to get to me after a while.”

“I think it would, too, but I’m not you. And someone has to keep the baddies off the street.” Charlotte snapped open her umbrella as the drizzle turned into a full-fledged shower and the gray clouds over the Gulf vibrated with lightning. Within a matter of moments the city was soaked and dripping, and as they walked along Decatur, Charlotte tried to hold the umbrella over both of them.

“Here, let me,” Claire said as she took the handle. “I’m taller.”

“Okay, but just make sure I’m covered. I’m wearing silk. Damn.” Charlotte swore as she stepped in a puddle. “And these shoes are brand-new.”

Claire glanced down at her sister’s high heels. The delicate footwear had obviously not been designed for wet weather, but certainly looked elegant and sophisticated on Charlotte’s dainty feet.

Claire felt a stab of envy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d splurged on a pair of expensive shoes. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed any indulgence whatsoever, but with her divorce nearly final, she had to keep her belt tightened. Now was not the time for extravagant purchases.

Although Charlotte would argue that designer shoes were not an extravagance, but a necessity. Image was everything and nothing screamed success like a good pair of shoes. Unless, of course, it was her gorgeous leather handbag, the one that had come with a four-figure price tag in roughly the same amount as Claire’s new central air-conditioning unit.

Her grandmother’s old house was going to be the death of her yet, Claire thought as she and Charlotte sidestepped crates of watermelons and cantaloupes stacked in front of a small grocery store. The old Uptown house was a classic money pit with the never-ending repairs and the exorbitant utility bills. Little wonder that she’d worn the same sandals and carried the same battered tote for two summers in a row. But then, an artist, as Charlotte teasingly called her, didn’t need to worry about her image the way an up-and-coming assistant D.A. did.

Claire wondered if any of the people they passed on the street would ever guess that she and Charlotte were sisters. They were so different in so many ways. They shared the same mother, but their looks and temperament had come from their respective fathers.

Charlotte was a petite brunette and as charming and vivacious as her handsome father, A. J. LeBlanc, who had sweet-talked his way into their mother’s heart and bed and then absconded with her life savings two days after she’d told him she was pregnant.

Charlotte’s abandonment issues aside, her father’s Creole heritage had blessed her with a honey-colored complexion and beautiful almond-shaped eyes the color of fine Burmese jade. Claire had always thought her sister resembled a porcelain figurine, but when she got angry, those green eyes would glitter like a knife blade.

In contrast, Claire was tall, thin and fair, an introvert whose propensity for brooding had come from her bookish father. William’s suicide, followed by A.J.’s betrayal, might have made some women a little gun-shy in the romance department, but not their mother, Lucille. A string of live-in lovers had followed, until her latest paramour, Hugh Voorhies, had swept her off her feet eight years ago. That was an endurance record for Lucille.

“Damn, Claire, pay attention, will you? I’m getting soaked.”

“Sorry.” Claire repositioned the umbrella to make sure that her sister was protected. The rain stirred a myriad of scents along the street—stale wine, flowers and damp brick. And from a restaurant doorway, spicy sausages and fresh-baked bread.

“I’m starving,” Charlotte grumbled. “Tell me again why we’re out walking in the rain instead of having an early dinner somewhere.”

“Because now that I’ve increased my hours at the gallery, I don’t have much time for shopping. Mama’s birthday is next week and I want us to get her something special.” Claire was a glassblower and shared a space in the Warehouse District with several other artisans. They took turns manning the gallery and using the studio and furnaces in the back, but because Claire needed the money, she’d started working additional shifts in the showroom.

“If time’s that tight, maybe we should just run into Canal Place and pick out a nice scarf or a bottle of perfume,” Charlotte said. “Or some gold earrings. Lucille loves jewelry.”

“Let me remind you that your idea of accessories is quite different from our mother’s.”

“You’re right. Better forget the gold earrings. Subtlety has never been Lucille’s strong suit.” Charlotte smiled and her eyes crinkled charmingly at the corners. Even with her hair all windblown and damp, she was still the most beautiful woman Claire had ever seen. “So what do you have in mind?”

“There’s a place on Chartres that has one of a kind dolls. I saw an ad for it in the paper recently.”

Charlotte made a face. “Please, not another doll! She already has forty gazillion lying around the house. She doesn’t need another one.”

“It isn’t a matter of need,” Claire gently chided. “It’s what she wants, and I think a fiftieth birthday warrants something special, don’t you?”

“Well, when you put it that way. I’ve got a little cash stashed away, but what about you? Now that you’re single again, money must be tight.”

“I’ll manage. My pieces are selling pretty well these days. Besides, if we find something special, Hugh’s agreed to chip in half. All you and I have to do is split the difference.”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “How on earth did you talk Hugh Voorhies into coughing up that kind of cash? The man’s so tight he squeaks when he walks.”

“I know, but he’s crazy about Mama. He likes to complain about her dolls, but he’d do anything to keep her happy.”

“Ain’t that the damn truth? I’d really love to know that woman’s secret. I’m serious,” Charlotte said when Claire chuckled. “Think about it, Claire. She smokes like a furnace, cusses like a sailor, dresses like a cheap whore and yet she always has some man crazy over her. I can’t even get a date for my boss’s fund-raiser on Saturday night. How does she do it?”

“She’s Lucille.”

They waited for traffic to clear, then crossed the street and turned up Conti. Claire could smell the river behind them. The rain had cooled the air, and the lights coming on in the early twilight looked like a turn of the century French painting. It was the kind of soft, dreamy afternoon that made her glad she’d come back to New Orleans after the flood. Not that she would ever seriously consider living anywhere else. She was third generation. Her grandmother had been born and raised in the same house that Claire now owned.

“I’ve been giving the matter a lot of thought,” Charlotte said as she looped her arm through Claire’s. Her silk blouse clung damply to her small breasts, but she didn’t seem to care anymore. “I’m Lucille’s daughter. I must have inherited a little of…whatever it is that she’s got, so why am I still alone?”

“You’re asking me? The sister with two failed marriages?”

“Don’t say that. Your second divorce isn’t final yet.”

“Yes, but the waiting period is merely a formality.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Just say the word and Alex would move back home in a flash.”

Claire looked away, shook her head. “It’s too late for that.”

“It’s never too late. And a man like Alex Girard doesn’t come along every day. Take it from me, the world is full of losers, but then…I guess you already know that, don’t you? Having been married to the biggest asshole of all time.”

“Charlotte.”

Claire’s rebuke brought her sister’s chin up in defiance. “Well, I’m sorry. I know we’re not supposed to talk about Dave Creasy, but I can’t help it. I’m never going to forgive him for what he did to you. Never.”

“It’s ancient history. Let it go.”

Charlotte’s mouth thinned. “If only that were true. But he’s the reason you could never fully commit to Alex. Don’t even bother to deny it, because I know you better than you know yourself.”

“Then you must also know that I don’t want to talk about either of my ex-husbands,” Claire replied in exasperation. “I just want to spend the rest of the day shopping with my sister.”

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal then. I won’t mention he-who-shall-remain-nameless for at least, oh, another twenty-four hours if you’ll agree to come with me to the fund-raiser on Saturday night.”

“Why in the world would you even want me there? I’m terrible at parties.”

“I know you are, but that’s kind of the point. Now that you’re single, you need to get out more. You spend way too much time puttering around alone in that old house. It’s just not healthy. But…” Charlotte’s expression turned contrite. “I do have an ulterior motive. If I show up at the fund-raiser by myself, people will know I couldn’t get a date. If I bring you, they’ll think I’m a good sister trying to help you through a rough patch.”

“You’re shameless.”

“And desperate,” Charlotte freely admitted. “So what do you say? Will you go? Claire?”

But Claire barely heard her. Mignon’s Collectibles was just across the street, and her gaze was fixed on the doll in the front window. Attired in a pink ruffled dress and black patent leather Mary Janes, she was seated at a tiny table decorated with a miniature tea set.

The doll’s face was so cleverly sculpted and painted that Claire had to stare for several moments before convincing herself that she wasn’t seeing a beautiful child seated at the table.

A child who looked exactly like Ruby.

Claire’s heart started to race as she stared at the doll. She tried to tell herself that the sighting of the teenager earlier had triggered her imagination. Ruby was already on her mind.

But the golden hair. That sweet smile. The little ruffled dress…

She put a trembling hand to her mouth.

“Claire, are you all right? You’re as pale as a ghost. What happened? Are you sick? I knew we should have stopped for something to eat—”

“That doll,” Claire said hoarsely. She couldn’t look away from it.

Charlotte turned toward the store. “The one at the little table?”

“Charlotte, it’s her.”

“You mean the one you want to get Lucille?”

Claire grabbed her sister’s arm. “Don’t you see it?”

Charlotte frowned at Claire’s harsh tone. “For God’s sake, see what?”

“That doll looks just like Ruby.”

“Ruby? Oh, honey, no. It’s just the hair. All those blond curls—”

“It’s not the hair,” Claire whispered. “Look at her face. Her smile. Even the dress. It looks like the one Mama made Ruby for her birthday. She had it on the day she disappeared.”

Fear flickered in Charlotte’s eyes as she glanced back at the shop window. “It’s just a pink ruffled dress. They all look the same—”

“No, they don’t!” Claire said desperately. “Mama had that fabric special ordered. It can’t be a coincidence.”

Charlotte turned slowly toward her sister. “Claire, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that doll is the spitting image of my missing daughter. That dress is identical to the one she had on when she disappeared.”

Charlotte bit her lip. “We both know that’s not possible. It’s just a doll. It’s not Ruby. Claire, wait!”

But Claire had already dashed into the street. Oblivious to the traffic, she kept her gaze fixed on the shop window. The closer she got, the harder her heart pounded. The doll did look like Ruby. It wasn’t her imagination.

“Claire!”

Behind her, she heard Charlotte scream her name at the exact moment she spotted the oncoming car out of the corner of her eye.

It happened so quickly, Claire didn’t have time to panic. The squeal of brakes barely registered a split second before the impact knocked her off her feet. She landed with a metallic thud on the hood and rolled off, hitting the pavement with such force the breath was knocked from her lungs.

She lay on her back, so stunned she couldn’t move, as a crowd began to gather around her. Charlotte reached her first and dropped to her knees beside her.

“Someone call 911!” She grabbed Claire’s hand. “Oh, God, Claire, are you all right?”

Claire tried to answer, but she couldn’t speak. She could do nothing but stare up at the sky as raindrops splashed against her face.

Four

Mignon Bujold had planned to close the shop early so that she could drive out to Jefferson Parish and surprise her little granddaughter with an early birthday present. The big day wasn’t until Sunday, but Mignon would be attending a huge doll show in Baton Rouge all weekend long, and if she didn’t see Piper today, the child would have to wait until Tuesday for her gift. And if past experience was any indication, the exhibition would be so hectic, Mignon might not even get the chance to call. She’d hate for Piper to worry that her grandmaman had forgotten her birthday entirely.

Thinking about the goodies she’d bought for her youngest granddaughter, Mignon smiled in anticipation. She loved both of Lily’s children dearly, but the oldest, MacKenzie, was such a tomboy that Mignon couldn’t spoil her with all the girlie things she so adored. But four-year-old Piper was a real little princess. She lived for her grandmother’s lavish gifts.

Mignon fingered the silver ribbon on the package. The Mori Lee dress and the Queen Tatiana doll were both extravagances, but at least she hadn’t succumbed to her initial temptation and given the child the Savannah Sweete doll. She might be a doting grandmother, but she was also a savvy businesswoman, and she’d recognized what a gold mine that doll would be the moment she first set eyes on her.

And Mignon’s instincts were dead-on, as usual. Not only had a bidding war erupted between two private collectors, but the electronic newsletter she’d hastily sent out to her mailing list had generated a steady stream of customers all afternoon. Business had been so brisk that she might not be able to close early, after all. But it couldn’t be helped. She was not one to turn away customers, especially with the shop just now starting to show a profit since the devastation of the flood.

When the store finally emptied just after five, Mignon headed for the door to lock up. But a commotion on the street drew her to the window, and she stood staring out at the revolving red and blue lights that reflected off the wet pavement. The area was suddenly crowded with policemen, paramedics and rubberneckers gawking at a woman who lay motionless on the street in front of a light blue sedan.

Good heavens, Mignon thought, and hastily crossed herself. First that ghastly murder only a few blocks away last night, and now this.

The woman had obviously been struck while crossing the intersection. Mignon could see one of the patrolmen taking a statement from the distraught driver of the vehicle, while another officer stood nearby, talking into a radio.

At least the poor woman hadn’t been the victim of a hit-and-run like the one that had put Savannah Sweete in a wheelchair all those years ago.

Ever since Mignon acquired the doll in the window, Savannah Sweete had been on her mind. She’d met the artist once, but it had been so long ago, she doubted that Savannah would even remember. However, for Mignon, the encounter had been the highlight of her career. She’d been a devoted fan for years and, along with the rest of the doll-collecting community, had been shocked and distressed to hear of Savannah’s accident.

Mignon remembered the doll maker as beautiful and gregarious, but from everything she’d heard, the accident had turned her into a recluse. And even though her dolls were still exquisitely sculpted and painted and remained highly coveted, the artistry in her creations had never been quite the same. Mignon would bet her teacher’s retirement fund that the doll in the window had been sculpted before the accident. She was that perfect.

Turning away from the sirens and flashing lights, Mignon sent up a prayer for the victim as she reached for the sign in the window. Before she could flip it to Closed, however, the bells over the door tinkled, and she chided herself for not being quicker. She could always turn the customer away, of course, but that wouldn’t be good business. So instead, she shrugged off her impatience and plastered a welcoming smile on her face.

Most of her regulars were women, but there were enough male collectors in the area that she wasn’t too surprised to see a man walk through the door. What did take her aback was his appearance. She’d rarely encountered anyone so…arresting.

The round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a rather delicate nose gave him a scholarly appearance, even as the full lips hinted at an unexpected sexuality. Blondish-brown curls fell across a high forehead, and a white orchid adorned the lapel of his dark jacket. But rather than detracting from his subtle masculinity, the exotic flower somehow suited him.

He gave a courteous little bow as their gazes met, and Mignon’s grandmotherly heart fluttered with awareness.

“Hello,” she said with an indrawn breath. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I hope so. I’m interested in one of your dolls.”

His cultured voice sent another shiver up her spine. “Let me guess, you’ve come to see the latest Queen Tatiana collection.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m interested in the Savannah Sweete in the window.”

Ah, a collector. And one who knew his stuff. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Savannah Sweete is undoubtedly the most talented doll artist working today, but I suppose I could be a bit biased. She’s a native Louisianan and we do tend to brag on our own.”

“How much is she?”

“I’m sorry, she’s already sold.”

One brow lifted. “Really? I would have assumed since you have her so prominently displayed—”

“I haven’t had a chance to remove her from the window yet.”

He sighed. “I don’t suppose you would consider another offer.”

“No, I’m sorry. A deal is a deal. But I could show you something else. The Queen Tatiana—”

“I’m only interested in the one doll.”

Mignon gave him another apologetic smile. “Then I can’t help you.”

She expected him to turn and leave, but instead he took a step toward her. Mignon saw something in his eyes then that the glasses had previously masked. A coldness that made her shiver.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I was just about to close up.”

“I won’t keep you. If you could just tell me from whom you acquired the doll…?”

Mignon frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. Now if you’ll please excuse me—”

“Then perhaps you’d rather talk to the police.”

The police? Oh, dear Lord…

Her hand flew to her chest. “What do you mean?”

“The doll was recently stolen from my private collection.”

Mignon’s heart sank. She’d known something was fishy about the doll when the other man couldn’t produce the certificate of authenticity. She should have listened to her gut, because her greed and carelessness had brought this strange man to her shop. And now Mignon’s instincts were warning her again. But she wouldn’t let him see her fear. She somehow knew that would be a mistake.

Her voice sharpened. “You can prove ownership? You have the certificate of authenticity or a receipt of some kind?”

“I have something better than that.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a photograph of a child who bore a striking resemblance to the doll.

Mignon’s eyes fastened on the picture. For a moment she couldn’t tear her gaze away, and her uneasiness faded. “What a beautiful child. Your daughter?”

“A childhood friend.” His lips curled grotesquely, in a smile that made Mignon’s skin crawl. And his eyes…they were so…empty. They didn’t even look real.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and was annoyed when she heard her voice tremble. “If the doll really does belong to you, then perhaps this is a matter for the police….”

She trailed off when he whirled and headed for the door. He’d forgotten his picture, but Mignon didn’t call him back. She slipped the photograph into her pocket and kept silent, glad to be rid of him.

But instead of leaving, he locked the door, drew the shade over the window and slowly turned back to face her.

He was still smiling.

Mignon backed away from him, but when she saw what he held in his hand, she spun and tried to run. He was so much younger and so much quicker, however. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to him. She started to whimper.

“Stop it! Stop that racket this instant, do you hear me?”

Mignon nodded and swallowed a sob. “Don’t hurt me. Take the doll and whatever else you want, but please don’t hurt me.”

“Hush, now,” he crooned as one hand feathered over her hair. “It’s okay.”

His voice turned so soothing and liquid that for a moment Mignon wondered if he would let her go. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her, after all. Maybe she would still be able to give little Piper her gifts.

The needle sank into her neck, and almost immediately, her knees buckled.

Slipping from his arms, she fell to the floor.

She didn’t make a sound because she couldn’t. She lay with her eyes open, watching him move about the shop.

He found packing materials and a box in the storeroom, and when he came back, he was surprised to see that she’d managed to crawl over to the counter. She had a strong constitution for someone her age. She’d even pulled off the telephone, but she hadn’t mustered enough muscle coordination to punch in a number. He could hear the drone of the dial tone as he peered down at her.

Kicking away the phone, he squatted beside her. Spittle ran out the side of her mouth as her eyes pleaded for mercy. He smiled and patted her head, then got back up to finish his tasks.

Lifting the doll from the window, he wrapped her in several layers of plastic, placed her carefully in the box and sealed the flaps with packing tape. And all the while, he sang softly as he worked. “‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine….’”

Once he had the doll protected, he came back over and stood looking down at the old woman. Ignoring the terror that gleamed in her pale eyes, he grabbed her ankles and dragged her to the back of the shop.

Five

From the window in her hospital room, Claire watched the flashes of lightning as the storm rolled in from the Gulf. Her door had been left ajar and hospital noises drifted in, but she tuned out the sounds. If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough she could hear the rain.

She imagined the patter of it through the palm fronds and banana trees in the courtyard behind her house. She could smell the musty scent of wet dirt and ancient brick, and she pictured herself standing beneath the eave of the house, her palms turned up to the sky.

When she was a child she used to catch rainwater in a fruit jar. Her mother could never understand her fascination, but to Claire there had always been something soothing about the rain that fell in New Orleans. Something spiritual about the way the trees would begin to whisper in the sweltering heat and the sky would darken suddenly, as if a curtain had dropped over the landscape. And then the rain would come.

“You’re gonna get wet, Mama,” Ruby would later tell her.

“I don’t mind. Come out here with me. Take my hand, that’s a girl. Now hold your face up like this and close your eyes. What do you feel?”

“It tickles.”

“Feels good, too, though, doesn’t it?”

“I like the rain, Mama.”

“I like it, too, baby.”

Claire turned from the window, letting the memory of her daughter drift away as she stared up at the ceiling. Ruby had vanished seven years ago without a trace. And now a doll that looked exactly liked her had turned up in a shop window in the French Quarter. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The resemblance was too striking. Someone who knew Ruby, or at least had seen her, had sculpted that doll. There was no other possible explanation for such an uncanny likeness. The artist had captured perfectly the shape of Ruby’s face, her expression, even the precocious half smile that had been the child’s very essence.

Claire’s eyes filled with tears as she thought about the implication of the doll’s existence. After all this time, was it possible that she might find out what had happened to her daughter?

She was afraid to let even a tiny glimmer of hope back into her heart. She’d been disappointed so many times in the past. What if it was just a coincidence? If she’d learned anything in the last seven years, it was to take things one step at a time. The first thing she had to do was get out of the hospital.

Feeling helpless and trapped by her injuries, she brushed away frustrated tears. She had a concussion and a gash on her left hand that had required twelve stitches. After the doctor patched her up in the emergency room, he’d used tweezers to pick out the bits of glass and gravel that were embedded in her palms and the backs of her arms. Then he’d sent her to X-ray, and afterward she’d been transferred to a room on the second floor, where she was supposed to spend a quiet night.

But people had been drifting in and out of her room all evening. Doctors, nurses, her family. She found it impossible to rest, especially once the painkiller started to wear off. Every bone in her body ached, and she knew the cut on her hand was going to give her problems in the studio. She wouldn’t be able to work the glass properly, which meant that until she healed, she would have fewer pieces on display in the gallery. The loss of income would be a blow to her already dwindling bank account, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Her immediate concern had little to do with her physical discomfort or her financial problems.

She didn’t want to stay in the hospital until morning. She wanted to go back to the Quarter, back to that shop. But every time she tried to leave, she’d been discouraged by one of the nurses who came in periodically to check on her, or by Charlotte, who’d barely left her side since the accident happened. The extent of her injuries couldn’t be determined until all her test results came back, they insisted.

And then her mother had burst into the room, and Claire’s remaining energy had been expended trying to calm her down. Lucille meant well, but she could be both physically and emotionally exhausting under the best of circumstances. Claire had been relieved when Charlotte finally dragged her off for a cup of coffee in the cafeteria.

The quiet had been welcome at first, and Claire had even managed to doze off. But the sound of a siren had roused her with a start, and now she was wide-awake and getting more anxious by the moment.

Slipping out of bed, she walked stiffly to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water, then took stock of the damage. A bandage covered the cut on her hand, and when she tugged up her hospital gown, she discovered a bruise the size of a basketball on her left hip and thigh where the car had struck her.

In spite of how she looked and felt, she would have checked herself out of the hospital, no matter how vehemently Charlotte and the nurses argued, if she thought she could even make it to the elevators. But considering the way her legs trembled from the short walk to the bathroom, the prospect of escape tonight seemed doubtful. By the time she made it back to her bed, she was shaking all over and perspiring.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she eased herself under the covers and collapsed against the pillow just as the door opened and a nurse came bustling into the room, her dark eyes striking against her pale skin.

“You should have pushed the call button for help,” she scolded.

“I’m okay.”

“Your family is in the waiting room just down the hall.” The nurse picked up Claire’s wrist and timed her pulse. “They asked me to let them know when I’m finished so they can come back in. But if you’d rather, I can tell them you need your rest.”

“Have you met my mother? She doesn’t discourage so easily.”

“Oh, I’ve met her all right.” The nurse strapped the blood pressure cuff around Claire’s arm and pumped it up. “Everyone on this floor has met her by now. She’s a real pistol, that one.”

“To say the least.”

The nurse noted Claire’s vitals on the chart, then looked up with a smile. “Anything I can get for you? Do you need something for pain?”

“I don’t want to take anything else just yet.”

“That’s up to you. But if you get too uncomfortable, let me know. And if you need help getting up to go to the bathroom, push the call button. I don’t want to come in here and find you collapsed on the floor.”

Claire nodded.

“You’ve missed dinner, but I could find you a tray if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks, I couldn’t eat a bite.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.” The nurse paused at the door. “What’s the verdict? Shall I send your mother back in?”

“If you must.”

The nurse grinned. “To tell you the truth, I’d be afraid not to.”

“There’s no point in you two staying here all night,” Claire told her mother and sister a little while later. “You should just go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Charlotte folded her arms as she stared down at Claire. “I have a feeling the minute my back is turned, you’ll try to get up out of that bed. You heard what the doctor said. You have a concussion. You need to rest quietly for at least twenty-four hours.”

“I can rest at home.”

“Claire, listen to your sister.” Her mother bent over the bed and tucked the sheet around Claire’s shoulders. “We’re not going anywhere, so you just lie there and let us take care of you.”

“But you know I don’t like to be fussed over.”

“Like it or not, that’s what happens when you get hit by a car.” Lucille Doucett patted the nest of blond curls piled on top of her head, then her hand came down to rest on a hip bone sharp enough to slice meat.

After Charlotte had called her from the emergency room, Lucille had dropped everything to rush straight over to the hospital, barely taking the time to smear on lipstick and slide her feet into the three-inch high heels she always favored. But her hair and clothes were a mess. The neck of her T-shirt was stretched out of shape and her jeans were a size too small even on her slight frame. She hadn’t gained weight since she’d bought them; she wore them that way on purpose, with the legs rolled up to show off the gator tooth that hung on a gold chain around her left ankle.

“You’re still trembling, honey. Are you cold?” She unfolded the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it up.

Claire sighed in resignation. “No, Mama, I’m fine. I just want to get out of here so I can go back to the shop and find out about that doll.”

Lucille and Charlotte exchanged a glance over Claire’s bed, and she frowned. “Please don’t look at each other like that. I’m not crazy.”

“No one said anything about you being crazy, hon.”

“No, but you’re both thinking it.” Claire turned to Charlotte. “I never should have let you talk me into getting into that ambulance.”

“Well, it’s not like you had a choice in the matter. You weren’t even conscious when the paramedics arrived. You’re hurt, Claire. A lot worse than you want to admit.”

“But what if something happens to the doll before I can get back to the store? What if she’s sold—”

“Hush now.” Lucille rubbed Claire’s arm. “Don’t worry about that tonight. You just do as the doctor said and get some rest.”

Claire turned her head toward the window and watched the lightning. “You don’t believe me, do you, Mama?”

“What a thing to say. Of course I believe you.”

“Then why are you and Charlotte still here? Why haven’t you gone to that shop to see the doll for yourself?”

“Because my main concern at the moment is you, baby girl.”

“But if you really believed me, you’d be moving heaven and earth to find out where that doll came from.”

“Claire, honey—”

“I’m not crazy, Mama, and I’m not imagining things. The doll in that window was the spitting image of Ruby. Charlotte saw her, too.”

Her sister’s gaze wavered and she looked away.

Claire said angrily, “Why are you acting this way, Charlotte? Just tell Mama what you saw.”

“I can’t.” Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed with emotion. “I can’t tell her what you want me to because I didn’t get a good look. And I don’t see how you did, either. All I could tell was that the doll had curly blond hair. She wore a pink ruffled dress. She might have looked a little like Ruby, but even if she was the spitting image as you claim, it doesn’t mean—”

“That Ruby’s still alive? I know that. But it has to mean something.”

Charlotte let out a long breath. “Maybe it does, I don’t know. But I hate seeing you get your hopes up like this. It’s been seven years.”

Claire glanced back out at the rain. “I know how long it’s been. Right down to the day, the hour, the very minute that I first noticed her missing.”

“I know you do.” Charlotte bit her lip. Tears shone in her eyes. “I know how much you still miss her. I miss her, too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her.”

“Then stop fighting me on this. There’s a doll out there that looks like my missing daughter. Help me find out why.”

When Charlotte didn’t answer right away, Lucille rushed to fill the silence. “Claire, you know we’d do anything for you, don’t you?”

“Will you go look at the doll with me?” Claire clutched her mother’s hand. “Mama, you have to see her. She looks exactly like Ruby, right down to that little pink dress you made for her seventh birthday. You remember it, don’t you? The one with the little white flowers?”

“Of course I remember it. I worked my fingers to the bone on all that embroidery.”

“She loved it so much. I couldn’t get her out of it.”

Lucille sniffed. “She called it her twirly dress. We had to go out and get her a new pair of shoes to go with it. Man, was that kid headstrong when she set her mind to something.”

Claire laughed softly.

A deep voice said from the doorway, “Is this a private party or can anyone join in?”

The room went still as Claire’s gaze connected with Alex Girard’s. He stood at the door, one hand propped on the frame as a lazy smile encompassed all three women. He looked lean and tanned, like someone who might belong to a country club. His suit was charcoal, his tie silver and his tasseled loafers were polished and buffed. That was one thing about Alex. Even on a cop’s salary, he always made sure he was well put together. He didn’t leave the house if he wasn’t.

Claire found herself staring at him almost as if he were a stranger. They’d been married for nearly six years, but somehow she always found something about him that she hadn’t noticed before. He was an attractive man, but his dark eyes made her think of one of those fun house mirrors that didn’t always reflect reality. He was in his late thirties and already starting to look a little like his father.

He wouldn’t want to hear that, Claire thought. Nor would he believe it. Like every other cop she’d ever known, he had a formidable ego.

“What are you doing here, Alex?”

He straightened from the doorway and came to stand at the foot of her bed. “My wife gets herself hit by a car, where else am I going to be?”

Claire was on the verge of reminding him that, for all intents and purposes, she was no longer his wife, but she didn’t want to start an argument in front of her mother and sister, so she said instead, “How did you know I was here?”

He grinned. “I’m a cop. I know everything.”

One look at Charlotte’s guilty face, however, confirmed Claire’s suspicion. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here. I’m fine.”

“I wanted to see that for myself.” He nodded to her mother. “Hello, Lucille.”

“Alex.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain. And you?”

“Same old same old. Stabbings, shootings, a sliced-up tweaker in the Quarter. Just a routine week in the Big Easy.”

“If you’re that busy maybe we shouldn’t keep you.”

Anger flashed like quicksilver in Alex’s gray eyes. For some reason, his charm had never worked on Claire’s mother, and he couldn’t understand why. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me and Claire a moment alone.”

“That’s up to Claire.”

“It’s okay, Mama.”

Charlotte came over and took Lucille’s arm. “You could use a cigarette anyway, couldn’t you, Mama? And I wouldn’t mind having another cup of coffee.”

Lucille said something under her breath, but she gathered up her purse and followed Charlotte to the door.

Before she stepped out, she glanced over her shoulder. “I won’t go far, Claire. You need anything, you holler, hear?”

“I will.”

After she and Charlotte disappeared into the hallway, Alex came around to stand at the side of Claire’s bed. “What was that all about?” He jerked his head toward the door. “Lucille acts like she’s afraid to leave you alone with me.”

“It’s not that. She’s just worried about me.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I know she’s never been my biggest fan, but I’d hate her to think that you’re afraid of me.”

“She doesn’t think anything of the sort. But I still don’t understand why you’re here, Alex. You could have called to find out how I’m doing.”

His amiable smile faltered. “Like I said, I wanted to see for myself that you’re okay.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

“Not my responsibility?” His lips pinched together as he stared down at her. “You think I can just turn off my feelings because you want me to? You think I’ll stop caring just because you’re divorcing me?”

“We both agreed to the divorce.”

“Because you left me no other choice. It’s not what I want and you know it.”

Claire stared at the ceiling. Why was she letting him get to her like this? Their marriage was over. The decision had been made and it was time to move on. Time to pull the plug on all her guilt. “I don’t want to do this. Not now.”

“I don’t want to do this, either. I didn’t come down here to fight with you, Claire. It scared the hell out of me when I heard what happened to you.”

“I’m sorry you were worried.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. I’m just glad you weren’t seriously hurt.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

“Are you asking as a cop?”

“Just humor me, Claire.”

She slipped her hand from his. “Didn’t Charlotte fill you in on the details?”

“Her account was pretty sketchy. She said you stepped in front of a car, but I have to believe there’s more to the story than that.”

“Not really. It was an accident. I wasn’t looking where I was going and I ran out in front of a car. It was my fault.”

“What about the doll she said you saw in a shop window?”

Claire heard the edge in his voice and turned her head to the window so that she wouldn’t have to see his face. Raindrops ran down the glass in tiny rivers. She watched one of the streams split in two and slide off in separate directions. “You don’t really want to hear about the doll,” she said quietly.

He sighed. “No, I probably don’t, but why don’t you tell me about it anyway?”

Claire kept her gaze focused on the window. “She looks exactly like Ruby.”

“Claire.” He said her name so tenderly her eyes welled with tears. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything.” Her voice trembled in spite of her resolve. “You asked about the doll and I’m telling you what I saw.”

“You can’t keep tormenting yourself this way.”

“That’s not what I’m doing, and even if I am, it’s no longer your concern. Just forget it, Alex.”

“Like hell I will.” He got up from the bed and strode over to close the door. When he turned back, Claire could see the anger and frustration on his face. “Let me ask you something. When was the last time you spotted a kid that you thought looked like Ruby?”

Claire remembered the girl she’d seen on the street earlier, and lifted her chin. “This is different.”

“Different than what? The one you saw on the playground that you took pictures of? Different than the time you followed another little girl and her mother home from the mall? You thought she looked exactly like Ruby, too. So you got out of your car and beat on their front door until the poor woman became so frightened she called the cops. If I hadn’t gotten wind of the situation, you would have been hauled in and booked.”

Claire listened to everything he said, and then she shrugged. “I don’t care what you think, this is different. I know what I saw.”

He shook his head, at a loss. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to help you.”

“You could try believing me.”

“That’s the one thing I can’t do. I can’t feed this obsession of yours, Claire. I won’t. Because I know how it’s going to turn out. You’ll get yourself all worked up again and then your heart’s going to be ripped open like it always is. I’ve seen it happen over and over, and this time won’t be any different. It’s been seven years. Seven damn years. You can’t spend the rest of your life grieving like this. You have to find a way to get over what happened.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked toward the window. “I don’t know, maybe you need to see someone.”

“I’ve been to a therapist. It didn’t solve anything.”

“Then maybe you need to find a different one. You have to do something.”

“I’m not crazy, Alex.”

“You will be if you keep this up. I don’t want you ending up like your old man.”

She gasped. “I would never do that!”

“I don’t want to believe it, either, but sometimes I have to wonder.” He stared out at the weather, his frustration collecting on his face like raindrops on the windowsill. “I see divorces in the department all the time. They’re as common as dirt. Cops just can’t seem to stay married. But most of the time it’s because of another woman or the lousy pay or because the wife gets sick of her man rolling around in the gutter before he comes home to her.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “But none of those things were ever our problem, were they? What did us in was that what you had was never going to be as important as what you lost.”

“That’s not fair,” she said. “My daughter was kidnapped. That’s not something you ever get over.”

“I’m not talking about Ruby.”

The nerves in Claire’s stomach tightened and she closed her eyes briefly. “Don’t say it.”

His face went white with suppressed fury. “You mean I’m not even allowed to mention the son of a bitch’s name? Well, I don’t know why that should surprise me. From the moment he showed up on your doorstep the night we got married, I never stood a chance, did I, Claire?”

“That’s not true. Our problems had nothing to do with him. I haven’t even seen him in years.”

“When’s the last time you dreamed about him?”

She looked away, silent.

“You can’t even deny it, can you?” Alex scrubbed a hand down his face and drew a long breath. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come over here to start something with you, Claire. I just want to help you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Then let me go,” she whispered.

“I wish I knew how to do that. I really do.”

Six

The child was enchanted by the dolls.

And the Dollmaker was enchanted by her.

Earlier, when he first got back from the city, he’d prepared a dinner tray and brought it down to the studio, deliberately leaving her door open to see if she would venture out. Then he’d gone over to his worktable, where he’d mounted a mirror on the wall so that he could watch the room behind him as he pretended to sketch.

After a few moments, he saw her hovering in the doorway. She was such a slight child. Waiflike, with her long, wavy hair and big brown eyes. He couldn’t take his own eyes off her.

She remained in the doorway, her gaze darting about the studio as she searched for a way out. His workbench was against the far wall, and the mirror was slanted in such a way that he could watch her discreetly. She didn’t see him at first as she took a tentative step into the room, her head turning first one way and then the other.

When she spotted him, her eyes widened and she started to retreat back into her dim little room. But she must have noticed that his back was to her, and her gaze flew to the outside door. She paused, as if trying to gauge the distance, and then, casting another furtive glance in his direction, she hurried over and twisted the knob.

The door was locked, of course. He’d made certain of that.

She tried the knob several times before finally giving up. Turning, she looked back at him, not knowing what to do.

He couldn’t get over how tiny she was. Much smaller at seven than Maddy had been. She wore blue jeans with elastic in the waist and a little yellow T-shirt with a mermaid on the front.

Her clothes were all wrong. Too casual for a little girl’s birthday party, but that didn’t matter. He would make her a new dress, something pink and frilly and utterly feminine. What mattered to him now were her features. The upturned nose, the heart-shaped mouth, the exquisite cheekbones. She was perfect. Or at least she would be very soon.

Several moments went by before the child saw the dolls. And then, for just a split second, the fear left her face and her brown eyes lit with wonderment. He couldn’t blame her. They were wonderful. Beautiful and charming, and he loved them, too.

Dressed in their finest, they were seated around a small, rectangular table, one at the end and two on either side. At the far end, the sixth chair stood empty. For now.

The Dollmaker had set the table with Maddy’s best tea set, and he’d made her favorite cake with strawberry icing. Her presents were piled on either side of her chair, as if waiting for tiny fingers to rip off the colorful bows and tear away the tissue paper.

The child stood transfixed by the scene. Her expression was rapt, and he swiveled around to watch her, but the movement startled her and she backed away.

“No, don’t go,” he said softly. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Sliding off his stool, he walked over to the little table and knelt beside the doll with the turquoise eyes.

“This is Maddy. Today is her birthday.”

The little girl said nothing, but she didn’t try to run away. She was captivated by the dolls.

He went around the table and made the introductions, and when he finished, he motioned to the empty chair at the end. “Come join the party.”

The child shook her head. “I want to call my mama.”

“In a little while perhaps.”

“I want to go home.”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging dejectedly. “Please don’t be tiresome about this. Remember what happened the last time?”

The little girl flinched as fear crept back into her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled. Slowly she nodded.

“Then come sit down and have some cake.”

She walked over to the table and sat down at the empty space. A tear spilled over and ran down her cheek. She scrubbed it away with her knuckles.

“You’ll feel better after you eat.” He cut a piece of the strawberry cake and placed it on the table in front of her. Then he cut pieces for everyone at the table and one for himself. He sat cross-legged on the floor and ate, his gaze never leaving the child’s face.

At that moment he felt happier than he had in a long time. All that business in New Orleans was behind him now. Maddy was home safe and sound, and all was well in the private little world he’d created.

In spite of her tears, the child’s company made him almost euphoric. He loved having her companionship. He always did. But he couldn’t keep her here much longer. Once the doll was finished, he would have to send her away.

He wouldn’t worry about that now, though. He didn’t want to spoil the party. Besides, even after she was gone, a part of her would remain with him always. Just like the others.

And when they were all finally together, the way they were meant to be, no one would ever take them from him again.

Seven

After Alex left, Claire managed to convince Charlotte to go home for the night, but Lucille wouldn’t budge. “No kid of mine ever spent the night alone in a hospital, and I don’t see any reason to start now.”

“But, Mama, I’m fine. There’s no point in wearing yourself out.”

“Claire, terrible things can happen in a place like this.” Lucille’s eyes, small and unblinking, were dead serious. She sat in a chair next to the bed, shoes kicked off, feet propped on the mattress. Her toenails were painted bright red. The lacquer matched the lipstick she’d reapplied after her last cigarette, but the crimson had already started to bleed into the deep crevices around her mouth, giving her a grotesque appearance in the harsh lighting.

“Nothing is going to happen to me in the hospital, Mama.”

“You don’t know that. You’re at their mercy once they get you all doped up on morphine.”

“They didn’t give me any morphine.”

“Well, they gave you something for pain, didn’t they?” Lucille brushed stray ashes off the front of her T-shirt. “I ever tell you what happened to my cousin Corinne?”

“She got a staph infection from a contaminated needle.”

“That’s right, she did. The nurse dropped the syringe on the floor, picked it up and stuck it right in Corinne’s arm. Didn’t bother to wipe it off or nothing. Took twenty years, but that infection finally killed her.” Lucille’s birdlike eyes gleamed knowingly. “Now don’t you think Corinne wished someone had been watching out for her that day?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Lucille nodded in satisfaction. “You just close your eyes and get some rest. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’ll be right here all night if you need me.”

Twenty minutes later, she was snoring softly, her head thrown back against the chair, mouth open. Claire wanted to wake her and send her home, but Lucille would swear she wasn’t a bit sleepy, she was just resting her eyes.

Turning off the light, Claire sat in the dark for a while, trying to sort through her emotions. Her nerves vibrated like a taut rubber band as the antiseptic walls closed in on her. A nurse had brought her something for the pain after Charlotte left, but the medication wasn’t working.

Slipping out of bed, Claire walked over to the window to watch the storm. Thunder rumbled overhead and the rain came down hard, blurring the city lights like a soft-focus filter.

And then just like that it was over. The storm moved farther inland, the rain stopped and moonlight broke through the clouds. The dripping treetops glistened and the lights from passing cars painted the glossy streets with misty streaks of color.

After the rain, ditches and backyards would come alive with the sounds of crickets and frogs, but inside Claire’s hospital room, all was silent except for Lucille’s soft snoring.

Climbing back in bed, Claire reached for the remote to the TV. Turning down the volume, she surfed until she finally found a cable news channel. She watched images from a car bombing in the Middle East and a mud slide in Southern California, but her attention was caught by the scrolling text at the bottom of the screen.

An Amber alert was in effect for a seven-year-old Alabama girl who’d been missing for nearly a week. The FBI and local authorities were still combing a wooded area near her home, but so far no trace of the child or her abductor had turned up. No eyewitnesses had come forward; no one had seen anything. It was as if the little girl had gotten off the school bus one afternoon and disappeared into thin air.

Claire watched the scroll until the broadcast finally switched to a video feed from Linden, Alabama. They ran footage of the search, an interview with the local sheriff and a tearful plea from the mother for her daughter’s safe return.

“That poor woman.”

Claire hadn’t realized that her mother was awake, but when she turned her head, she saw the sheen of her eyes in the light from the television screen. Some of Lucille’s hair had come loose from the bun, and the strands coiled around her face like tiny gold wires.

“I hope they catch that son of a bitch,” she said in a fierce whisper. “I’d like to get ahold of him myself.”

“I know, Mama.”

“It’s an abomination, men preying on little girls like that. They ought to fry every last one of them.”

Claire switched off the TV. She couldn’t watch anymore, and she didn’t feel like talking. The room fell silent, but her mind raced with images that had plagued her for years. Ruby was dead. In her heart, Claire knew that to be true. But what torment had the child suffered before she drew her last breath?

Claire squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut off those terrible questions, but it was no use. Another mother’s agony, coming on the heels of seeing that doll, had reawakened her worst fears.

When Ruby first went missing, Claire had made the same plea to her daughter’s abductor. Before the camera started rolling, she’d agonized over what to say, worried herself sick that she might not be able to make it through the broadcast without breaking down. Dave had wanted to go on camera in her place, but the reporter who conducted the interview encouraged Claire to make the appeal because it would have a more visceral impact coming from the mother. So she’d gone on air and begged for her daughter’s safe return, pleaded with the kidnapper to spare Ruby’s life. And it hadn’t made any difference.

For weeks afterward, Claire worried that she’d come across badly or unsympathetic, and that’s why whoever had Ruby didn’t respond. Both Dave and the FBI agent assigned to the case told her that such an appeal was a long shot, anyway. It wasn’t her fault. But Claire had wondered for ages if she should have said or done something differently. Sometimes she still wondered.

After the interview, she’d been so emotionally drained, she’d walked away from the reporter and collapsed in Dave’s arms. He’d held her for a long time, as if he’d never let her go. He was so strong back then, a rock in times of crisis, but that was before the guilt had eaten him alive. That was before the alcohol had destroyed the man Claire had fallen in love with.

In the weeks and months following Ruby’s disappearance, he’d become someone Claire barely recognized. A drunken stranger who’d shoved his gun in her face one night and demanded to know what she’d done with their daughter.

Claire could picture him the way he was at that moment, with hate and despair twisting his once familiar features. She would never get that image out of her head. That he’d suspected her even for a moment, even under the influence of alcohol, was something she hadn’t been able to live with. She’d packed her bags and walked out the next day.

Drawing the covers over her shoulders, Claire slid down in bed and closed her eyes. The room was quiet, the air was cool and the pain medication she’d finally had to succumb to had started to numb the ache in her joints.

She’d always told herself it was the not knowing that still tore her up all these years later. If Ruby had died of a terrible disease or in some tragic accident, Claire would have been racked with grief. Her life would never have been the same, but eventually she might have been able to move on. If she could have buried Ruby…if she could have known in her heart that her child was at peace, maybe she could have drawn some comfort from her faith.

The not knowing was the worst.

Or so she’d always thought.

But on this dark, drenched night, as Claire huddled under the covers, dread settled like a shroud over her hospital bed. She’d never considered herself clairvoyant or even particularly intuitive, but she could feel the tug of something that might have been a premonition. A presage that warned of an evil she could hardly imagine.

And suddenly she realized how wrong she’d been. The not knowing wasn’t the worst. Her ignorance had kept her sane all these years.

She dreamed about Ruby that night, the same nightmare that always came back in times of stress.

In her dream she was standing at her grandmother’s kitchen sink shelling crawfish. She and Dave and Ruby lived in the tiny apartment over the garage, but Claire had come over that day to use her grandmother’s stove because the one in the apartment was too unreliable and she wanted to make Dave’s favorite meal for dinner.

The vision was so real that Claire could feel the crusty shells of the crawfish beneath her fingers as she watched out the window for Ruby. She’d gotten a new bicycle for her seventh birthday and was riding up and down the sidewalk in front of the house. Claire called through the open window for her to come inside, but Ruby ignored her. Each time she rode up the street, she took longer and longer to get back.

Putting away the crawfish, Claire washed her hands at the sink and then went outside to call her in. The late afternoon shadows from the oak and pecan trees slowly crept toward the street.

She could see the gleam of Ruby’s red helmet off in the distance and she started running after her. Somehow she knew that she had to reach her daughter before Ruby got to the end of the street. Something terrible waited for her there. If Claire didn’t get to her first, she would be lost forever.

Claire screamed her daughter’s name, but Ruby just kept on pedaling. Claire could barely see her now. She was only a dot in the distance. But she was still on her bike. Claire could reach her in time. She tried to run faster, but her legs were suddenly so heavy she could barely lift them.

And then the dream shifted. She saw herself at the end of a narrow alley, the kind in the Quarter that led back to sun-dappled courtyards. She smelled roses and damp moss, and somewhere nearby water splashed against stone. Someone brushed up against her back, but when she glanced over her shoulder, no one was there.

A door appeared in front of her and she heard Ruby sobbing inside the room. Slowly, Claire reached for the knob. When she drew back the door, a shaft of sunlight spilled into the darkened space. A little girl sat at a small table, her head buried in her arms. Claire called out her daughter’s name and the child lifted her head. But it wasn’t Ruby. It was the little girl from the news.

Claire started toward her, but Alex’s voice said from behind her, “She’s dead, Claire. Leave her be.”

She turned to search for him in the narrow alley, but he was hidden in the shadows. And when he stepped into the light, she saw that it was Dave. His lips moved, but he made no sound at all. When he realized that she didn’t understand him, he lifted a hand and pointed behind her. Claire turned slowly back to the door. The little girl was gone, and in her place was the golden-haired doll from the shop window.

Clare glanced over her shoulder at Dave. He reached out to her now, as if to stop her, but she shook her head and walked through the door. She glided across the room and picked up the doll. The porcelain felt warm and soft in her arms, like human flesh, but when the doll slipped from her grasp and hit the stone floor, the fragile face shattered into a million pieces.

Eight

Dave took the Sea Ray out at dawn the next morning to test the overhauled Chevy engines for his uncle. The boat had been in dry dock for over two weeks, a financially disastrous situation during peak season, but Marsilius had used the opportunity to update some of the equipment.

The old thirty-foot sports cruiser now offered a television, stereo, microwave and a fully stocked refrigerator, along with the two-burner stove, full head and stand-up shower. The cabin area could comfortably accommodate four guests for overnight trips out to the steel reefs where the bright vapor lights from the oil rigs beamed down to the water’s surface, attracting schools of bait fish that in turn lured in the yellowfin, mackerel and amberjack.

Marsilius had night fishing down to a science, but Dave had been trying for years to get him to invest in a smaller boat for the anglers who liked to fish the marshes and oyster beds in the basin. His uncle was set in his ways, though, and wasn’t looking to expand his business. He had Dave to relieve him when his knee acted up, and Jinx Bingham’s boy to run the bait and tackle. No sense fixing what wasn’t broke, he always said.

Throttling back the engines, Dave glided through a glimmering channel and dropped anchor in the bay to watch the sunrise. Mist hovered over the marshes and islets, and clung like wet silk to the treetops.

Pouring a cup of coffee from his thermos, he sat down to enjoy the solitude. He couldn’t help but think about the past this morning, or the case that Angelette Lapierre had dropped in his lap. She’d faxed a copy of the file to his office, and he’d sifted through the reports and made a few calls before going down to New Orleans late last night. But he needed more time to study the case before he made a decision about taking it on. He didn’t want to give the grieving family false hope until he figured out Angelette’s angle. She’d used the similarity to the Savaria case to draw him in, but Dave couldn’t figure out why she’d bother. She said Nina Losier’s parents were looking to hire a private detective, and she’d told them about him, but that alone set off an alarm for Dave. He and Angelette hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. Aside from the fact that she’d tried to kill him when he broke things off with her, he didn’t trust her and never had. Maybe at one time her edge had been a big part of her appeal, but now Dave knew only too well the cost of getting mixed up with Angelette Lapierre. And that was one mistake he wasn’t looking to repeat.

But a young woman had been brutally murdered and her parents wanted justice. That was a hard situation to walk away from, especially for Dave, and he had a feeling that was exactly what Angelette was banking on.

As the boat rocked gently in the current, Dave tipped back his head, propped up his feet and tried to let the peaceful setting lull him. Sunrise in the Gulf was always spectacular, a fiery palette of crimson and gold splashed across a deep lavender canvas. As the mist slowly burned away in the early morning heat, the landscape turned a deep, earthy green. Violet clumps of iris jutted through a thick carpet of algae and duckweed, and purple water lilies opened in the green-gold light that filtered down through the cypress trees.

Off to his right, a flock of snowy egrets took flight from the swamp grass, and a second later, Dave saw the familiar snout and unblinking stare of a gator glide past his boat. The vista was at once beautiful and menacing, a shadowy world of dark water and thick curtains of Spanish moss.

Dave had been born and raised in New Orleans, but he loved the Cajun Coast, with its teeming bayous and maze of channels where an outsider could get lost for days. Even when he’d still lived in the city, he had come down every chance he had to help Marsilius with the charters. After he and Claire were married, she would come with him, and when he was finished working for the day, they’d take the boat back out to watch the sunset. Sometimes he would rest on deck while she cooked dinner in the galley, but most of the time he would sit below and watch her.

Her face had mesmerized him. Even the menial tasks she’d performed dozens of times drew a fierce scowl of concentration to her brow, and Dave always wondered what went through her head then. He’d call out her name to make her glance up, so that he could see her quick smile. She had a shy, intimate way of looking at him that made him want to drop whatever he was doing and take her in his arms, no matter where they were.

Sometimes they would stay out on the water until well after dark, and make love on the boat. Afterward Claire would sit between his legs, his arms wound around her as they watched the stars shimmer through the treetops.

When Ruby got older they’d brought her along a few times, but she didn’t take to the water. Too many bugs to suit her, and she didn’t like getting her hair all tangled on the breeze.

“You’re a little city girl,” Dave would tease her.

To which Ruby would proudly respond, “I’m just like my maw-maw.”

Claire had always been a little befuddled by how Ruby emulated her grandmother, and Charlotte had been downright horrified. But Dave got a kick out of it. Lucille was earthy and she looked like a hot mess most of the time, but she had a good heart. And she was the only one in the family who still gave him the time of day.

He stirred restlessly. The reminiscing had shattered his fragile peace. Loneliness started to creep up on him, and deep inside, he felt the familiar tug of a dangerous thirst. Maybe he’d been hiding out in the swamps and bayous of St. Mary Parish for a little too long. His trips to New Orleans—two days ago and again last night—had reminded him of a life he’d been trying for years to convince himself he didn’t miss.

Finishing off the coffee, he started the engines and headed back in. Marsilius’s place on the bayou was an old weathered building covered in license plates and sheet metal that glinted in the early-morning sunshine. The ramshackle bait and tackle shop also sold sandwiches and snacks, and as Dave tied off at the private dock, he spotted Latrell Bingham dumping bags of ice into the washtubs Marsilius used to chill soft drinks and beer. The kid looked up, grinned and waved to Dave, then went back to his work.

Dave lived just down the road in an old two-story bungalow with screened-in porches and trellises of climbing roses. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, but the place suited him fine. Except for at night, and then he missed the noises of the city. The scream of a siren heading across Canal Street toward the hospital, or the music and drunken laughter spilling from the bars and strip clubs on Bourbon Street. But what he missed most of all was the hum of alcohol as it coursed through his bloodstream, numbing the pain and guilt, giving him a split second of peace before the rage took over.

The bayou gave him too much time to think. Sitting out on his porch after dark, with the moon glinting off the water and the croak of bullfrogs and crickets echoing up from the swamp, Dave would start to remember the way Ruby’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and how she’d cling to his neck when he galloped her off to bed. The way Claire would look up at him when he returned, and quietly put away her book.

He remembered everything, and yet at times, it seemed to Dave that he had a hard time calling up their faces and the sound of their voices. The old demons would start to prod him then. Alcohol had always given him a moment of clarity along with the peace. If he stopped at one drink or even two, he would be able to remember them properly. The problem was, he’d never known when to quit. A couple of whiskeys would turn into a two-day bender that left him shaky and sick and wondering why he didn’t just hole up somewhere and die.

He didn’t want to go back to those days, no matter how lonely the nights were out here. New Orleans was temptation. New Orleans was Claire and Ruby and a life Dave was never going to get back.

Stepping up on the porch, he fished his house key from a flowerpot and let himself in. The shades were drawn and the house was still dim and cool. He’d converted the small living space off the entrance into his office, and the only other rooms on the bottom floor were an eat-in kitchen and a half bath out back. His current setup didn’t allow for entertaining, but that didn’t matter much to Dave because he rarely had company. And whenever someone did stop by—usually Marsilius or one of the neighbors—they always sat out on the porch, where they could catch a breeze off the water.

Rolling up the old-fashioned shades to allow in some light, Dave walked into the kitchen to put on another pot of coffee before heading upstairs to shower. By the time he came back down, the sweet smell of chicory filled the house. He dug through the coat closet off his office until he located the box of files he wanted, and then carried it out to the porch. Settling down in a padded rocker, he lifted the lid from the box and removed one of the folders.

Before he left the department, he’d made copies of the Savaria case files, and thumbing through the reports and statements now was like sifting through a pile of bad memories. So many things had gone wrong in Dave’s life that he didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on the loss of his livelihood. But he’d loved being a cop. It was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do. If someone had told him that he’d end his career by destroying evidence in a homicide investigation, he would have called that person a liar. But he’d done that and worse. His daughter, his wife, his job—all gone in the blink of an eye because of one bad decision. One weak moment that had changed the course of his entire life.

The day Ruby had gone missing, he’d let Angelette talk him into drinks after their watch, and the next thing he knew, they were checking into a seedy motel off the old Airline Highway. The tension had been building between them for months, and a part of him had known it was only a matter of time before he succumbed.

What he’d wanted from Angelette didn’t have anything to do with the way he felt about Claire, but she wouldn’t believe that. No woman would. Dave had still loved Claire then as much as he ever did. Maybe even more. But Angelette was like a poison in his bloodstream, and he only knew one way to get her out of his system.

Afterward, he’d left her fuming at the motel while he drove home to his wife and kid. And he liked to think that if things had turned out differently, he would never have put himself in that situation again. But he couldn’t be sure. Back then he’d been reckless with the things he cared about the most.

Claire’s call had come as he’d peeled out of the parking lot, and all he could think on his frantic drive home—and for days, months, years afterward—was that his daughter had been kidnapped while he’d been holed up in some motel room with another woman.

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