“Tristan?” she whispered. “You’re real.”

It wasn’t a question. Not exactly. Because he was real. She knew it. The water dripping off his hair and clothes was wet on her skin. The face she was touching was sickly white, yes, but it was warm and fleshy and, most important, it was not fading before her eyes. She grabbed a handful of hair and squeezed it. Her hand came away soaking wet. She looked at it and laughed, but the laugh turned into a sob.

His brown eyes turned darker. “I’m real,” he said, his mouth stretching into a wry smile as a dampness glistened in his eyes.

She sobbed again and put her hand over her mouth, hoping to stop them before they stole what little oxygen she had left in her lungs.

“It’s okay, San. It’s okay.”

“Okay? Is it?” she snapped, still stunned by the vision before her. “Where did you come from? We. Buried. You.”

Security Breach

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MALLORY KANE has two great reasons for loving to write. Her mother, a librarian, taught her to love and respect books. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. His oral histories are chronicled in numerous places, including the Library of Congress Veterans History Project. He was always her biggest fan. To learn more about Mallory, visit her online at www.mallorykane.com.

This one is for the readers. Thank you for liking my books. Thanks for the letters and emails and Facebook posts. For your insights, your compliments and your critiques. I love you all.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Murray Cho had always worked hard, as a boy in Vietnam after his parents were killed and in America after he immigrated. But the so-called land of opportunity was not accurately named, at least not for a poor immigrant from Vietnam. Eventually, he managed to buy a shrimp boat in a small town in South Louisiana on Bayou Bonne Chance and make enough of a living to take a wife and have a son.

But when Patrick was five, Murray’s wife ran off, leaving him to rear his son alone. He and Patrick had made it just fine until two months ago, when gun smugglers hid their booty in Murray’s shrimp warehouse and hurt his reputation. So Murray moved himself, Patrick and his shrimp boat to a dock near Gulfport.

For a couple of weeks, Murray had thought the move was a good one, until an ominous voice on his phone had shattered his peaceful fisherman’s existence. The voice threatened harm to his son, Patrick, if he didn’t follow their directions with no questions.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out why the men had chosen him. He was at once familiar and suspicious to the people of Bonne Chance. Brandishing a gun at and threatening the smugglers who’d used the old seafood warehouse he’d bought as a depository for the automatic handguns they were smuggling into the United States had not helped his reputation in the town.

Stealing a laptop from Tristan DuChaud’s home had been a piece of cake, once Patrick had shown him how to disarm a security system. He didn’t want to know how his son knew that. All he wanted to do was leave the laptop computer where he’d been instructed and go back to his simple life. With any luck that was the last he’d hear from the men.

Murray reattached the rope he’d just mended to the rear of the boat, and then headed across the dock and through the gate, locking it behind him. The RV that he and Patrick lived in was across the parking lot. It was tiny but it served. He slept in the bedroom and the boy slept on the couch.

Murray opened the door quietly, frowning to find it unlocked. Patrick always promised to lock the door before he went to sleep, but he was barely eighteen. He had trouble remembering to close the door, much less lock it.

The interior of the RV was dark and quiet. It was after ten o’clock on a school night. His son should be home studying or in bed. Irritated and a little worried, Murray dialed Patrick’s number. No answer. Then before the display went off, the phone rang.

“Patrick, where are you?” he snapped.

“Murray Cho?” a familiar voice said. It was the same man who’d sent him into Tristan’s house for the laptop.

Murray’s heart pounded. “Where’s Patrick? If you’ve done something to him—”

“Listen to me,” the voice said. “We’ve got your son. He’s alive—for now.”

“What? For now? What’s going on? I want to speak to him.”

“I said listen! You did a good job of getting the laptop. Now we’ve got another job for you. DuChaud’s wife is back in the DuChaud house, by herself. My boss is wondering why she didn’t stay with her mother-in-law. What do you know about Tristan DuChaud?”

The dread that had squeezed his chest the first time the man had called him seized him again. “DuChaud?” Murray stammered. “He’s dead.”

“Is he?” the voice on the phone asked. “How do you know?”

“Th-there was a funeral,” Murray stammered. “Please. Let me talk to Patrick.”

“We’ll make you a deal. You get us proof that DuChaud is alive and we won’t kill your son.”

Murray’s heart seized in terror at the man’s words. “No! Please! I’ll do anything, but don’t hurt my son.”

The man sighed. “Come on, Cho. You think begging me is going to do any good? I’ve got orders from my boss to get this information or my ass is on the line. I picked you because you’re known around that area and nobody would think it unusual if you were seen around the dock or the DuChaud house.”

“I—I don’t understand,” Murray stammered.

“Look, we’re not bad people. We don’t want to hurt you or your kid, but if we don’t get this job done it’s going to hurt us—permanently. That’s another reason I picked you. Because you have a kid, you’re motivated. So get me some proof. If he’s alive, my boss wants to see proof. If he’s dead—” The man gave a little snort. “That’ll be harder to prove.”

“Who’s your boss?”

“Nope. Now, Cho, you should know I can’t tell you that. Just do what you’re told and don’t ask questions.”

Murray shook his head numbly. He had no choice. His son’s life was on the line.

“We’ll take care of your son as long as we can. You need to concentrate on what I’m saying.”

Murray did his best to remember what the man had said the boss wanted. “Y-your boss wants proof Tristan DuChaud is alive? But he’s dead. They buried his body. I can’t prove he’s alive.”

“You’re not helping yourself or your boy by arguing. We’re going to check with you every day and find out what you’re doing. This better not take long, Cho. And if you even think about going to the authorities, your son will suffer, and I do mean suffer.” The phone went dead. The caller had hung up.

Murray stared at the phone’s screen until it went black while the man’s voice echoed in his ears. You get us proof...and we won’t kill your son.

He had to do something. Had to rescue Patrick. But how? How could he prove that a dead man was alive?

* * *

IT WAS AT DUSK, the end of the day, when she missed Tristan the most. A thousand years ago, someone in Britain had known enough about loneliness to name this time of day the gloaming. A little later, it was called eventide. These days, most people said twilight or dusk. Pretty words, but depressing, according to Sandy DuChaud.

Sandy preferred the sunrise. The beginning of the day. Each rising sun was a new promise, a bright beginning that called to her. She’d loved to roust Tristan out of bed, thrust a hot mug of coffee into his hand and make him watch the sunrise with her. And he in turn had delighted in making her take a walk with him at sunset. With Tristan at her side, she’d begun to get over her innate sadness at the fading of the sun’s light.

But Tristan was gone now, and even the sunrise didn’t cheer her.

“Do you know what today is, bean?” Sandy asked her unborn baby as she rubbed the sore spot on her baby bump where he liked to kick. “No? Little bean, you need to keep up. It’s been two months since your daddy died—” Her voice gave out and her breath caught in a sob.

“Come on,” she said. “We need to unpack.” Yesterday afternoon, she’d walked into their house on the outskirts of Bonne Chance, Louisiana, for the first time since the day after her husband’s funeral. It had been so quiet, so empty, so lonely.

At first, she had been overwhelmed with grief and sadness that Tristan wasn’t there and would never be there again. But as she’d stood looking out the French doors past the patio and the driveway to the graceful, drooping trees, vines and Spanish moss of Bayou Bonne Chance, she’d felt a serenity inside her like nothing she’d ever felt before.

The faint sound of the surf and the mellow ring of the wind chimes on the patio washed over her, adding to her peace and calm.

This was why she’d come back to Bonne Chance and their home and all the memories, good and bad. She could hear Tristan’s laughter in the organic, spiritual sounds of nature. It called to her as the sun always had.

Forgetting about unpacking, she slid open the French doors and walked outside. The air in June seldom got cool in South Louisiana. Oh, sometimes a storm would send a chilly breeze in from the Gulf. But anyone who lived in the Deep South knew that chilly and cool were not the same thing.

Cool was pleasant—afternoons on the front porch with the ceiling fan rotating, watermelon or iced tea and desultory conversation about nothing more important than how well the fish were biting. Chilly, on the other hand, was a damp breeze that cut through any material, even wool, and made fingers and toes stiff and cold.

“We seem to be all about word choices today, bean,” she said. Lifting her head, she let the evening breeze blow her hair back from her face. When she opened her eyes, there was still a faint pink glow in the western sky.

“Okay. Yes. The sunset is kind of pretty,” she admitted reluctantly. “I’ll give you that. But it will be completely dark in less than fifteen minutes. I’d planned to walk over to the dock and back this afternoon, but I let the time get away from me. It’s too close to dark now.”

She’d walked over there late the day before. She still wasn’t sure why. Maybe hoping to feel Tristan’s presence there, where he’d spent so much time. That dock had been his second favorite place all through his childhood. Boudreau’s cabin had been his first.

Tristan had always liked swimming in the Gulf this time of the day. He’d pointed out to her that as the sun went down, everything calmed. The breezes that normally seemed to carry sound died, the birds and animals quieted, and the waters of the Gulf became calm and slick as glass. He’d said it was as if the whole world hushed in respect for vespers.

Sandy recalled the dark form she’d seen in the water, diving and swimming out beyond the shallows at the dock. She’d been looking into the setting sun and so all she could see was a sinuous silhouette sliding between the waves. She’d thought it was a dolphin.

But now, thinking back, she could convince herself it looked human.

The sky was getting darker every second. As Sandy turned back toward the house, a faint whispering stopped her. It sounded like voices.

She went still, listening. Disturbed by her sudden anxiety, the baby kicked. Sandy patted her belly reassuringly.

Within a few seconds, the sounds became repetitive and she realized her ears had played tricks on her. The susurrus noise wasn’t voices. It was leaves and twigs rustling as something or someone moved through the tangled jungle of the swamp. Something or someone large.

But who—or what? And was it as close as it sounded?

She shivered. There were a lot of wild animals in the swamp, some very large, like alligators or bears. But she’d lived here all her life. It wasn’t the prospect of meeting a wild animal that made her tremble.

It was the memory of the dark form swimming gracefully in the Gulf. Had it been a person? Who would be swimming at dusk and then walking through the swamp, the way Tristan once had?

No. She had to stop imagining that each breeze that lifted the curtains or each murmur of waves licking the shore could be Tristan—or his ghost.

There had been nothing ghostly about whatever was moving through the tangle of trees and vines just now. Those sounds were real.

There was no reason she could think of for anyone to be on DuChaud property, not at this time of day—or any time of day, actually. The DuChaud’s home was eight miles from the town of Bonne Chance. Everybody knew where the beautiful hand-built house was, but the road from town turned from asphalt to shells and gravel about two miles away and ended at the DuChaud’s patio. It was not a road that invited casual drivers.

A different noise broke the silence of the early darkness, again faint, but recognizable. The sound of snapping twigs and crunching leaves.

Whatever or whoever was out there was on the move and didn’t care who heard him. Sandy inched her way backward, away from the trees and toward her house, both hands cradling her tummy protectively. She ran through the French doors as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels, locked them and set the alarm.

Only then did she breathe a sigh of relief. “Sorry, bean,” she muttered. “I know it’s silly, but I think I scared myself.”

All at once, her eyes began stinging. Blinking furiously, she tried to make the tears disappear, but they still welled and slipped down her cheeks.

“Damn it, I don’t want to be afraid in my house. But like it or not, you and I are here alone. We have to be careful. Besides, that’s our dock—your daddy’s dock,” she said, her voice tightening with grief.

“Oh, Tristan,” she whispered. “I need you so much. I’m doing my best to live without you. Why are you still. Right. Here?” She slapped her forehead with two stiff fingers.

“Right here in the very front of my brain. Why aren’t you fading, like a perfect memory should—” Her voice cracked and a couple of sobs escaped her throat. She pressed her lips together, hoping to hold in any more sobs. She didn’t want to cry. The more upset she got, the more restless the little bean.

In all the years she’d been married to Tristan, in all the years she’d known him before that—essentially their whole lives—she’d never been afraid of anything. But the sound of footsteps had spooked her.

“Don’t worry, bean. I’m not turning into a scaredy-cat. I came back here for the peace and quiet, and no alligator or poacher—or whatever that was—is going to scare me away.” Her brave words made her feel better, and as she relaxed, she realized how tired she was.

Yawning, she checked the alarm system and armed the doors and windows, then headed toward the master bedroom.

As she passed the closed door to her office, which they’d converted into a nursery, she realized she hadn’t even thought about checking her email. Too distracted by memories, she supposed.

When she turned on the light, the desktop was empty. Her laptop wasn’t there, where it always sat. Automatically, she glanced around as if it might have gotten set aside by someone during the time she’d been in Baton Rouge with her mother-in-law.

But by whom? And when? A chill ran down her spine at the thought of someone coming into her house.

No, she told herself. Don’t start panicking. Think rationally about who of all the people who must have had access to the house could have done it. Obviously Maddy Tierney or Zach Winter, but Maddy would have told her, right? So...people from the crime scene unit? But all the evidence of Maddy’s kidnapping by the captain of the Pleiades Seagull was in the master bedroom. Why would they need to take her laptop computer?

But if not them? Then she had a thought that sent her heart hammering. What if it had been Tristan? What if he was out there, hiding, and needed something from the laptop.

“Stop it!” she cried. “You can’t go there every time something odd happens or you hear a strange sound. He’s dead and nothing is going to bring him back to life!” Blinking, she forced away all her silly romantic thoughts of Tristan out there somewhere, alive and hurt.

Forget all the evidence about how he had died. Forget everything except one fact. He’d gone overboard into the dark, dangerous water and had never come out. That, if nothing else, told her he was really dead. If he were still alive, he would move heaven and earth to get to her. Tristan would die before he’d allow her to believe he was dead.

With a quick shake of her head, she forced away thoughts of Tristan and concentrated on the missing laptop.

Before she jumped to any conclusions, she should check with Maddy and Zach. They may have had to confiscate it so the hard drive and memory cards could be reviewed.

Maybe Homeland Security or the NSA had needed it for evidence. That made sense, except for the fact that there was nothing on her laptop that could possibly be interesting to anyone other than herself.

She checked her watch. It was just after ten. That was eleven Eastern time. She hesitated for a second, then pulled out her phone. Maddy had told her to call anytime if she needed anything.

When her friend answered, she blurted out, “Maddy, did you or Zach take my laptop?”

“What? Sandy? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Did either of you take my computer, or see someone else take it?”

“It’s not there?”

“No. It always sits on my desk in the nursery. Always. And it’s not there.”

“No, we didn’t. We searched it. Remember, you gave us the password. We went through all the saved files, looking for anything that might have been related to Tristan’s death or the smuggling, but it was there when I left.” Maddy paused for a beat. “Have you seen any other signs that someone has been in your house?”

Sandy’s tummy did a flip, which woke up the baby. He wriggled and kicked. “I don’t think so. The nursery is the only room I hadn’t been in. You’re sure it was here when you guys left?”

“I am,” Maddy said. “Did you check with the crime scene unit or the sheriff?”

“No,” Sandy said. “I called you first.”

“Well, you need to call them. If they took it you should have gotten a receipt, but people forget things.”

“So it disappeared after you left.” She paused, thinking. “Wait. Come to think of it, the alarm wasn’t set when I came in yesterday. It didn’t beep.”

“So whoever took the laptop disarmed the alarm. Do a lot of people know the code?”

Sandy shook her head. “Just me and Tristan.”

“Maybe the crime scene team didn’t know how to arm it and didn’t realize you weren’t there.”

“So someone’s been in the house,” Sandy murmured.

“Listen to me, Sandy. It could be nothing, but just to be on the safe side, maybe you should go into town and stay at the hotel, or go back to Baton Rouge.”

“No,” Sandy said. “This was probably some kid.”

“Hold on a minute.”

She heard Maddy talking to Zach, then suddenly the phone went silent. Maddy must have put it on mute. It didn’t matter, because Sandy knew what they were saying. They were discussing whether there was still any danger to Sandy or anyone else in Bonne Chance.

“Maddy—” Sandy muttered. “Come on. Hurry up.”

Finally Maddy unmuted her phone. “Sandy, if anything happens, call us, okay? We’re not on the case anymore, but it hasn’t been closed. So either Homeland Security or the NSA might reactivate it.”

That quickly, the confidence that Sandy had in knowing that Homeland Security and the NSA had finished with Bonne Chance, the smugglers and Tristan’s death drained away. “Why would they do that?”

Maddy hesitated—not for long, but it was long enough for Sandy to notice. “Maddy? You told me all the smugglers were arrested and the captain was killed by Boudreau. I thought that was the end of it.”

“There are some things that we’re not allowed to talk about. There are some things we’re not even allowed to know.”

“But you do know, don’t you? I knew you and Zach weren’t telling me everything. There’s more to Tristan’s death than you told me, isn’t there?”

“Sandy, don’t.”

“Maddy, I swear I will come over there and wring your neck if you don’t tell me what you know.”

“Hang on a minute.”

“No! Wait—” But Maddy was gone. Sandy waited impatiently. After about twenty seconds, she came back on the line.

“Sandy, listen carefully, because I can only say this once. It’s possible—just possible—that your husband’s death was not an accident.”

Sandy sat down. It was a good thing there was a chair right there. “What? So Zach was right? What happened? Is there some new evidence?”

“Listen to me. We spent a week in your house while we searched for answers to what happened to Tristan and all we could come up with was that his death was suspicious.” Maddy took a breath. “So now Homeland Security is ramping up listening devices as well as working with the Coast Guard to do more spot inspections of the oil rigs. They’re obviously worried that there may be another group out there that’s planning something. Bonne Chance is probably one of the least populated and least noticed places on the Gulf Coast. It doesn’t even have streetlights except on Main Street.”

“I know. Out here, we can barely see lights from the town on clear nights, or if there’s a fire we can see flames and smoke.”

“Well, the darkness and isolation makes it desirable for smugglers.”

“Maddy, you have to tell me why Zach—”

“Sandy!” Maddy snapped. “What did I just tell you?”

“A lot of vague stuff that you won’t explain. Fine. I’ll let you know if anything happens. That is if I’m able to.” Sandy was being sarcastic, but Maddy had just laid a new and awful truth on her and refused to explain it.

Her husband may have been murdered.

“Sandy, call the sheriff and get him to take fingerprints off the desk. That’s the easiest way to figure out who did it.”

“If their prints are on file. But they probably aren’t.”

“Call the sheriff, Sandy,” Maddy said.

“Maddy, this might not make any sense to you, but I don’t want anyone in my house. I just got home. All I want to do is be here with the baby. We have a lot of things to sort out, him and me. There’s no real reason to get fingerprints, is there?”

“Sandy, I mean it. I’m supposed to be in training this whole week, but I’ll take a break and call you if I have to.”

“All right. I’ll call. Now can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. How are you feeling? Is the baby doing well?”

“Yes. We’re both doing fine.”

“Did that little thing ever fall off?”

“Little thing?” Sandy said. “Oh, right. That’s what the doctor said about the sonogram. Not that I know of. It’s still there.”

“So did he actually say it’s a boy?”

“No. Apparently physicians don’t like to actually commit, but he sounded pretty sure. You know,” she said with a sad smile, “Tristan said we were having a boy. He really believed it.”

“Aw, honey.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Sandy forced a laugh.

“Have you thought of a name yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“So you’re back there in Bonne Chance. Are you and the baby going to stay there?”

“I plan to,” she said. “But I might go back over to Baton Rouge when I’m closer to the delivery date. It might be easier, having Tristan’s mother to help me.”

She barely listened as Maddy went on and on about what a great idea it was to go back to Baton Rouge. When she had a chance, she broke in and said goodbye, that she was going to sleep. Maddy warned her again what would happen if she didn’t call the sheriff, then they hung up.

“Okay, bean. How about you? Do you think I should call the sheriff about the computer? Yeah. Me neither. Although I think I’ll go see Boudreau tomorrow. Let him know I’m back. He might have seen someone sneaking around the house.”

She smiled as she rubbed the side of her tummy. “Although, if Boudreau saw somebody he didn’t know going into Tristan’s house when I wasn’t there, he’d probably shoot them.”

Chapter Two

Tristan woke up feeling relaxed. The early-morning sun shone across his bed, warming his legs. He took in a deep breath, scented with gardenias. Sandy. She’d glowed the last time he’d seen her, just as a pregnant woman should.

As he smiled sleepily and turned toward her, searing pain tore through his calf, igniting painful memories.

He wasn’t in his bed with his wife beside him. He was on a cot in his old Cajun friend Boudreau’s cabin, where he’d been since Boudreau saved his life.

A memory of dark water and bright shark’s teeth hit his brain. His muscles tensed and the hot pain in his calf, where muscle had been ripped away by thick, sharp teeth, seized him again.

Clenching his jaw and groaning quietly, he consciously relaxed his leg. He’d learned the hard way that if he could avoid tightening the tendons and whatever muscles were left on that side, it didn’t hurt quite so bad.

The pain finally faded, but it was no relief. All he felt was a gaping emptiness inside. He was supposed to be dead. Was dead, as far as his hometown, Bonne Chance, Louisiana, and his family knew.

He couldn’t have notified his family if he’d wanted to. According to Boudreau, he’d spent nearly two weeks unconscious, then when he finally woke up, he was too weak to stand and walk.

Since then, he’d forced himself to walk every day, pushing through the awful pain. He couldn’t imagine how his mangled leg would ever work right, but if determination had anything to do with it, he would be successful.

Every morning, he sent up a prayer of thanks to God for letting him live. He’d been granted quite a few miracles in the past two months, and that one was the greatest.

He needed another miracle, though. He needed to walk across the dock from Boudreau’s cabin to his family home. The miracle he envisioned was that once he got to the house, Sandy would be there waiting for him, beautiful and happy because he was alive.

He’d run to her without limping or falling and take her in his arms, feeling the swell of her tummy between them. She would take his hand and place it in just the right spot to feel their baby kick.

But Sandy wasn’t there. She was in Baton Rouge with his mother, thank God.

Thank God for several reasons. First, while seeing her might be his fondest dream, that wasn’t his primary motivation to recover as fast as he could. He had to find and bring to justice the man who’d ordered him killed.

And to do that, he needed to retrieve a vital piece of evidence—at least, he hoped it would be vital. But he had to get his hands on it and it was in the house.

As much as he longed for Sandy, he prayed she wouldn’t come back to Bonne Chance. Not until he’d tracked down the person who had tried to kill him and wanted him dead.

While he’d been daydreaming about Sandy and their baby, the sun had risen above the window casing. From the floor, he picked up the bumpy cypress walking stick Boudreau had whittled for him,

He took a deep, fortifying breath, then slowly sat up and swung his feet off the bed to the floor. Putting on his shoes was a painful chore, but not as painful as standing.

He used the stick to lever himself upright. As he balanced, putting weight on his right leg, he grimaced in anticipation.

And there it was. The pain. He cringed and tightened his grip on the walking stick. Outside, the morning sun shone through leaves and sent dappled shadows dancing across the ground.

Tristan lifted his face and let the energizing sun’s heat soak through him, trying to keep his mind clear and open, trying to be glad he was alive.

But as hard as he tried to stay in the warm, bright present, the nightmare of his struggle with death clutched at him. He couldn’t shake the memory of plunging into the dark, churning water off the oil rig.

He relived each terrifying moment, as dark, chill salt water seeped in through his mouth and nose and the shock of cold on his skin paralyzed his muscles.

He’d felt but hadn’t reacted to the bumps and nibbles and flesh-ripping bites of the sharks that circled him until he’d opened his eyes and saw blood everywhere. His blood. It had swirled and wafted past him like ink dripped in water, darker than the brownish water of the Gulf.

Tristan gagged and coughed reflexively, and greedily sucked in fresh air until the horrible memories began to fade. He was beginning to appreciate the small things in life, like breathing. A wry smile touched his lips for a second as he limped over to a rough-hewn bench Boudreau had built under a pecan tree.

He didn’t sit, because then he’d have to stand up again. Instead, he propped the walking stick against the bench and watched the morning come alive. Birds circled the yard, stopping to peck for seeds and nuts and insects.

Boudreau had a goat tethered to a tree with a generous amount of line so it could wander almost uninhibited. A vague memory of cool milk sliding down his throat took away the remembered burn of salt water.

As the quiet of dawn turned into the hustle and bustle of daytime in the bayou, Tristan made a decision. There was no more time for rest and recuperation. He had to solve the mystery of his near murder, and there was no better time than now. He would walk a mile today, all the way down to the dock and back. He was ready to walk that far. He had to be.

When Boudreau appeared, carrying a bucketful of water from a hidden artesian spring, Tristan told him his plan.

“What for you thinking about going down there?” Boudreau shook a finger at him. “You ain’t got the stamina yet, you. You want somewhere to go? Strip the sheets off that cot and take them down to the spring and wash them. Use that Ivory soap. It don’t hurt the water too much.” He stalked past Tristan into the house and within a moment came back out, carrying the bucket, now empty.

“Haul up a bucketful of water when you’re done washing. See how that goes, then we’ll talk about how far you think you can walk.”

“Boudreau,” Tristan said. “You saved my life. If you hadn’t been out fishing that morning and stopped the bleeding in my leg, I wouldn’t be alive now. I owe you too much and respect you too much to argue with you, but I can’t lie in bed any longer. I’ve got to strengthen this leg as much as I can, although I know it’s never going to be as good as it was.” He sighed. “There’s enough I won’t be able to do. I don’t want it to wither down to complete uselessness.”

“Wither? Son, ain’t no use making up stories about what ain’t happened yet. The future gonna happen, yeah, but its story ain’t been writ yet. You start pushing yourself too much, you’ll undo the good you’ve done and, before you know it, you’ll accidently throw yourself into that future of your own making. See?”

“So what should I picture, rather than the truth that without most of the muscle in my calf, I’ll never do better than a slow and painful limp for the rest of my life?” he asked bitterly.

Boudreau studied him for a moment. “How ’bout you picture that pretty little wife of yours back home and mourning for you. See if that’s a better motivation.”

“What? Sandy’s back? Here?” Shocked, he glanced in the direction of the house. Then one of the many things Boudreau had told him during the past few weeks came into his mind.

He recalled his friend telling him that Murray Cho had gotten into the house without setting off the alarm and had come out a few moments later with what looked like Sandy’s laptop computer.

Tristan had been surprised—he’d never imagined Murray Cho as a thief.

“She can’t be back,” he cried. “Murray could come back. He thinks she’s gone, and if she surprises him—”

“There you go again, making a surefire mountain out of a piece of ground where there might be a molehill one day. Slow down, son. Let things happen as they will. Just be ready when they do.” Boudreau assessed him. “Meanwhile, how come you think she’s not safe? You left her alone when you worked on the rigs.”

He thought of Sandy, waiting for him week after week, never having a full-time husband, and he never having a full-time wife. Now she was less than a mile away.

He wanted to run to her and grab her up and kiss her until they both were panting with desire. He wanted to see how much her tiny baby bump had grown. And he wanted to put his hands on it and feel the child they had created, the child he already thought of as his son.

But he was afraid. Not only did he not want to show his face, he didn’t want to chance her telling someone—her best friend, or his.

“I had no choice. Besides, I didn’t know they were going to kill me. If they find out I’m alive, what’s to stop them from doing it right this time?”

“Who’s them? That captain’s dead. Everybody’s gone from the oil rig now.”

“Come on, Boudreau. The captain was never the man in charge. The boss is still out there. He’s some big muckety-muck in the company that owned the oil rig, Lee Drilling. And that man knows I can potentially identify him.”

“Yeah?” Boudreau said. “Who is he?”

“I said potentially. I don’t know who he is. The first time I heard the captain talking about a plan to smuggle illegal weapons into the US and give them out to kids on the streets, it was a complete accident. I realized I was listening to terrorists, and that was only one side of the conversation. I put together a program to capture and save every conversation that took place on that satellite phone.”

“And that captain never said a name?”

“I don’t know. I never had a chance to listen to all the recordings. Too afraid I’d get caught. I stored them on a flash drive, hoping I could get it to Homeland Security. They can use voice recognition technology to identify the man, and that will implicate him in the smuggling operation.

“Something went wrong with my program and the captain caught me fooling with his satellite phone. He kicked me out of his office and never said anything, but I know that’s why they tried to have me killed.”

“So where’s that flash drive? You for sure didn’t have nothing on you when I fished you out of the Gulf.”

“That’s just it. I hid it in the house the last time I was home. My plan was to get it to Homeland Security on my next week off. But I never got that week off. Now I don’t know if Murray found it when he got the laptop.”

“That’s why you don’t want Sandy back here.”

Tristan nodded grimly. “I’d like to get Homeland Security to put a guard on her, but to do that, I’d have to let them know I’m alive. And as soon as they hear from me, they’ll pull me in to DC for debriefing. Oh, they’d honor my request to guard her, but I can’t be sure she’s safe if I’m not the one protecting her. I mean look at how many good soldiers who have the protection of the government have been killed. How many innocent civilians.”

“I get you wanting to protect her yourself, but, son, you ain’t capable right now.”

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what are you saying? That my only choice is to notify Homeland Security? I’d be signing her death warrant. Somebody as high up as the captain’s boss would know as soon as I surfaced. He’d have plenty of time to kidnap her before Homeland Security could react. She might end up being tortured for information she doesn’t even have. And I wouldn’t be here to rescue her.”

* * *

SANDY FELT AS THOUGH she hadn’t slept at all and therefore the little bean had been restless, too. She hadn’t been able to shut her brain off. Every time she’d go to sleep, her dreams had been filled with images of Tristan sinking into the cold, dark water as hungry sharks circled around him. It was like a slideshow that wouldn’t stop. Click—murdered. Click—murdered. Click—murdered.

Then she would wake up with her heart racing and tears wetting her cheeks and pillow.

Finally, around seven o’clock, she got up and bathed and dressed and headed into the kitchen. For a second, she stared at the coffeepot in longing. But she’d sworn off coffee for the pregnancy, not wanting to have a baby who was hooked on caffeine.

She yawned. “You have no idea how much I would enjoy a cup of coffee this morning. And there might be some decaf in the freezer. But my tummy has let me know in no uncertain terms that it likes grape juice and only grape juice.” She patted her belly. “So grape juice it is, right?”

As she sat at the kitchen table and drank the juice, she looked at her phone, recalling Maddy’s warning from the night before. She wanted to blow off the Homeland Security agent who had become her friend, but she knew Maddy would bug her until she called the sheriff. If she refused, Maddy would call him herself.

“No choice but to do it,” she muttered as she got up and went into the nursery. It was the only place in or out of the house where she could get a reliable cell signal. She dialed the sheriff’s office.

“Baylor,” she said when Sheriff Baylor Nehigh answered. “It’s Sandy.”

“Well, hello. I didn’t know you were back in town,” he said. “How’re you doing? How’s the baby?”

“Fine. We’re fine,” she said. “The baby’s fine. Baylor—”

“Now how far along are you? I’m trying to remember.”

Sandy closed her eyes and prayed for patience. If she couldn’t get her question in, Baylor would be off on Tristan’s death and she’d have to listen to his theories for at least twenty minutes before she could get another word in edgewise.

“Five and a half months, Baylor. I think someone got into the house while I was gone. My laptop computer is gone.”

“Now, what? You say a computer is missing? Well, now, we can’t be responsible for that. You’d have to talk to the crime scene unit, although my guess is that oil rig captain took it when he broke in to kidnap Agent Tierney,” he said. “If it was him you’ll never get any money for it.”

“Baylor! That’s not why I’m calling. The laptop went missing while I was gone. I thought if you or the crime lab had it then I don’t need to worry that someone got into my house while I was away.”

“I’ll be glad to check on that for you, but do understand, my budget is too small to replace your laptop.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’ll buy a new one.” She paused. “You don’t want to take fingerprints or anything, do you?”

“I can send my deputy out there when he gets back. It’ll probably be after dark. He’s gone to Houma to deliver some paperwork. I need a courier, but like I said—my budget won’t handle it.”

“No, no,” Sandy said, feeling relieved. She didn’t want anyone coming into her house right now. She’d come back to be alone with her baby and try to come to peace with Tristan’s death. “I’m sure you’re right about how it happened.”

“Anything else I can do for you, Sandy?”

“No, Baylor. Thanks.”

Sandy hung up while he was telling her to take care of herself. She rinsed her glass, then headed out to walk to Boudreau’s cabin. She took a deep breath of clean morning air and yawned again. “I’m sorry about last night, bean. I couldn’t get what Maddy said out of my head.”

She wondered if talking to her unborn baby about things that upset her was bad for him. She hoped not, because talking to Tristan’s child soothed her, and according to the latest baby books, it was good to let the baby become used to the mother’s voice.

“Did you know your daddy was an undercover agent? Wait. What am I thinking? You were there when Zach told me. Naturally I had to hear it from his oldest friend, because Tristan apparently thought I didn’t need to know that little tidbit.” She heard the bitterness in her voice. She didn’t want to sound like that when she talked about Tristan. Certainly not to her baby.

With an effort, she made her voice light and soft, the way she talked when she told him a fairy tale or quoted a poem. “He was a real-life spy, I guess. He worked for Homeland Security, catching bad guys. Until one day, one of the bad guys killed him.”

She stopped talking because she had to. She was breathing hard, mostly from trying not to cry, and she’d arrived at the dock. It was a beautiful morning. The sun glared and glistened off the water. “I should have gotten up earlier and watched the sunrise,” she said wistfully. “Although without Tristan...” Her voice trailed off and she smiled sadly at the memories of sunrises and making love and being happy.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “Let’s go. I want to talk to Boudreau.”

As she turned toward the path to Boudreau’s cabin, she noticed slide marks in the mud. Stepping closer to the wooden pier, she studied the markings. Someone had pulled a boat up there since the last rain. She shook her head. It was probably Boudreau. He used the dock all the time.

“I’ve got to be careful,” she murmured. “I’m seeing terrorists and bad guys everywhere.”

The sun was already yellow and hot when she stepped out of the tangle of vines and branches into Boudreau’s front yard. Boudreau was sitting on an old, rough-hewn bench, mending a tear in a fishing net.

“Well, now, you are moving much faster this—” he said, looking up. “What the hell you doing here?” he snapped, glaring at her.

“Boudreau, it’s Sandy. Tristan’s wife.” He’d known her for years, and the last time she’d been here was on that awful night, when she’d come to tell him Tristan was missing and feared dead. But when he talked nonsense, like just now, she wasn’t sure he remembered her.

Boudreau stood, dropping the fishing net and stalking toward her, the darning needle in one hand and his knife in the other. “I ask you a question. What you doing here? You go on now. Get out of here.” He stopped, pointing the tip of the knife back the way she’d come. “Go!”

“But I need to talk to you. I want to close the dock—”

“Get out of here, Mrs. DuChaud. Get!” Boudreau shooed her as if he were shooing a chicken, with a sweeping motion of his hands. “Get!” he yelled again.

Sandy stared at him in openmouthed disbelief. This wasn’t confusion. It was hostility. Did he think Tristan’s death was her fault?

“Boudreau, please, listen to me. This is important.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I come down to your house one day soon. We talk then. Now you get out of here and back to your house tout de suite or I’ll sic my dog on you, I guarantee.”

She didn’t know a lot about Boudreau except what Tristan had told her and he’d never mentioned the man being violent. But he had shot that oil rig captain in cold blood, so maybe the best thing to do was to leave.

“Please, come talk to me,” she called out over her shoulder as she turned and headed back down the path she’d walked up to his shack.

“You just get gone and stay gone,” she heard him say.

By the time she got to the dock she was breathing hard again, so she stopped for a few moments. She stood on the dock and looked out over the dark, greenish-gray waters of the Gulf of Mexico. And there, diving and surfacing as the sun glared off the water with such intensity it was difficult to see anything but the splashes and waves, was the creature that she’d seen the day before yesterday, frolicking in the water. She squinted and shaded her eyes, wishing she’d brought her sunglasses with her.

Nothing helped her see any better, though. The sun was higher now and the glare was too bright. And all at once, it seemed that whatever the creature was, it had sensed that she was watching, because the splashing stopped. Sandy blinked and put both hands up to deflect the sun, but the water was glassy and smooth and the sun reflected off it like a mirror.

Whatever—or whoever—had been playing in the water just beyond the shallows was gone now.

“I’m going to have to get up early one morning, bean, and get out here so I can catch whoever or whatever that is. Maybe it’s a mermaid.” She smiled and rubbed the side of her belly. “Or a merman.”

Back at the house, she made herself some breakfast. By the time she’d finished eating, she’d convinced herself that Boudreau had shooed her away for her own protection. Maybe he knew there was a fox or a bobcat or an alligator running around that might do her harm. And he had promised to come see her. She knew from Tristan that if Boudreau said he would do something, he would.

“I guess we’ve got to wait for him, bean. He could have been nicer, though. He didn’t have to yell like that. Kind of hurt my feelings.” She drank the last of her juice and rinsed her glass and plate and set them on the drain board.

A glance at the clock told her it was just now eleven o’clock. “I still need to talk to him, though. He may have a better idea of how to keep people away from the dock,” she told the baby. “He may already be guarding it. Maybe that was him I heard last night, checking to be sure no one was using the dock.”

She yawned again. She’d been tired before she went to Boudreau’s. “We’ve got to take a nap, bean. I’m about to fall asleep standing up. Then we’ve got to drive into Houma and get some groceries and buy me a new, smaller computer. A notebook. That’ll be our big, exciting adventure for the day.” As she said the words, a faint echo of a chill ran down her spine. “I hope,” she added.

Chapter Three

It was almost dark when Sandy got back from shopping in Houma, which was twenty-five miles north of Bonne Chance, and if she’d been tired before, she was about to collapse from exhaustion now. She had stopped and bought a chocolate milk shake on the way. It was melted now, but she could put some ice in it and rejuvenate it a bit. Even melted, it sounded better than any of the food she’d bought at the grocery store. She was too tired to cook anything. Swallowing the melted shake would probably take the last of her strength.

She parked on the driveway just beyond the patio and grabbed her groceries and the new computer box in one hand and her house keys in the other. She was almost all the way across the patio to the door when she saw the footprints.

She nearly dropped the groceries. Automatically, she glanced around, but there was nothing to see. She stepped around the muddy tracks and tried the French doors. They were still locked.

She looked at the threshold, but there was no mud there. Relieved, she went inside and locked the doors behind her. Then she stood there and studied the muddy prints through the glass panes.

It was hard to tell how big or small the shoes were because the prints were smeared and the concrete was wet from an earlier rain. It looked as though they had no tread, though. So either the shoes were worn-out or they were soled in smooth leather.

Boudreau wore old, cracked leather boots. Maybe he’d walked over here while she was gone.

Of course, she thought with a sigh of relief. It was Boudreau who’d made the prints. It made her feel better that he’d come. Tristan had always told her that when he was away, Boudreau would watch over her.

She glanced at the clock on her phone. Eight o’clock. She stretched and yawned. “What do you think, bean? Too early to go to bed?”

She walked to the alarm box and set the door and window alarms, grabbed a glass of water and her milk shake, which she’d cooled with a couple of ice cubes, then headed into the master bedroom.

She’d already climbed into bed before she realized she’d left the curtains open. She didn’t want to get up, but she certainly didn’t want to sleep with the curtains like that, not after what had happened the last time she was here, when Murray Cho’s son had spied on her.

She closed the curtains and climbed back under the covers. She picked up a book she’d begun at her mother-in-law’s house, but it didn’t take long for her to recall why she hadn’t finished it before. She tossed it onto the floor and pulled an old fashion magazine from the shelf of the nightstand. It took practically zero concentration to glance through the ads and the fashion spreads.

She was nodding off over an ad for Bulgari earrings when the bean decided he was restless. “Ow!” she said. “Wow, bean. That was a good one.”

She rubbed the place where he’d planted his tiny foot, not that it helped much. It was like scratching your thumb because your nose itched. The place that hurt was on the inside, so rubbing the outside, while it seemed like a good idea, didn’t help much.

“Settle down. You’re going to make me go to the bathroom again. Please don’t kick my bladder.” She grunted. “And there you go. That was my bladder. I’m so glad you mind well.”

She stepped into the bathroom and saw that the curtains in there were open, too. She closed them, used the bathroom, then looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her eyes were wide and dark.

“Come on, Sandy,” she muttered. She looked like a pitiful heroine in a horror movie, although there was no reason to feel afraid in this house.

“This house is very safe,” she said to the baby. “It’s your daddy’s house. It was his daddy’s and his granddaddy’s house. He promised me he would always keep me safe here. Me and you now.” She felt tears starting up in her eyes and dashed them away angrily.

“This is Murray Cho’s fault,” she said. “It was his son, Patrick, who’d peeked in the window on the day of your daddy’s funeral.” She’d been terrified to see two men looking in her window, gaping into her private life.

“Our private life. I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same.” She sighed. “Not even when you get here,” she said softly, patting her tummy where she thought his little back was. “It’s their fault I’m scared.”

She turned out the light and lay down, but there was no way she was going to fall asleep. It was just like the night before. Every time she closed her eyes, horrific visions haunted her. With a sigh, she sat up and turned on the lamp.

Opening the bedside table drawer, she picked up the prescription bottle and considered the label. Take one or two for sleep. She could take one. One would be safe. Extra safe, since the doctor had prescribed two.

She swallowed the pill with water. “Okay, let’s try again,” she whispered, then lay down on her side and cradled her pudgy tummy.

“Good night, little bean,” she said as she felt something wet trickle down the side of her face to the pillow. “Why am I crying?” she grumbled out loud. She rarely cried and seldom ever needed help sleeping. But tonight, there was something bothering her and it wasn’t the memory of two men peeking in her window.

She’d insisted on coming back here, had declared to Tristan’s mother that she had to come back to the house where she and Tristan had lived together. She’d told her it was the only way she could heal. She’d meant it then, but now she wasn’t so sure she’d made the best decision. An impossible thought had occurred to her while she’d been on the phone with Maddy. A ridiculous thought. A thought that couldn’t possibly ever be true. But, whether it made sense or not, she couldn’t get it out of her head.

What if it wasn’t the Chos who had spawned this fear and dread that was keeping her from sleeping? What if it was the figure she’d seen at the window later on the night of Tristan’s funeral? The figure that had to be a dream. Or was he? What if he’d been the one who’d taken her laptop computer?

Was it Tristan—or his ghost—that she was really afraid of?

She remembered him standing there just inside the bedroom window, dripping wet, his face pale and haggard. Blood had dribbled down the side of his head, mixing with the water. Sandy shuddered. She never wanted to see that apparition again as long as she lived. She did not believe in voodoo. She did not believe in ghosts or demons or goblins—not on this earth. But she knew she couldn’t live here if Tristan was going to keep showing up, even if he was just a figment of her grief-stricken imagination.

She knew he was only in her imagination, because if he were alive, he would never hurt her by pretending he was dead.

If Tristan were alive, he’d be here with her and their unborn baby.

* * *

TRISTAN UNLOCKED THE French doors of his home with the spare key that had been hidden in a fake flowerpot bottom for as long as he could remember. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the rainwater dripping off him.

Boudreau was right again. He’d been sure Tristan wasn’t strong enough yet. Now, with his leg throbbing with pain and his head fuzzy with fatigue, Tristan had to agree. But he’d had no other choice.

Boudreau had told him about Sandy showing up at his cabin that morning while Tristan was swimming. But Tristan already knew she’d been out walking.

He’d gotten a glimpse of her at the dock from the water. She’d been shading her eyes and craning her neck, so the odds were that she couldn’t see him because of the sun’s glare. The fact that she hadn’t shouted at him or marched back up to Boudreau’s asking about him had been reassuring.

According to Boudreau she’d been agitated and nervous, as if she was afraid of something. And she’d seemed desperate to talk to him. But Boudreau, knowing that Tristan would soon be coming up the same path that Sandy would be walking down, had put her off and sent her home, hopefully in time to prevent them from running into each other.

Tristan made his way across the kitchen floor to the alarm control box behind the hall door, worrying about the squeaking of his sneakers. He disabled the alarm with two seconds to spare. He was way too slow.

He shook his head in disgust. He’d brought his walking stick with him, but he’d abandoned it by the French doors. He didn’t want to use it inside the house and take a chance on dropping it or banging it into something.

He hobbled down the hall to the nursery, where he’d hidden the flash drive in plain sight. He’d thought at the time that he’d chosen an excellent hiding place. He had no idea how well it had worked, although he figured if anyone had found it, Boudreau would know.

So unless Sandy had noticed it, the device was probably still exactly where he’d put it. He’d grab it and go, and Sandy would no longer have anything that anyone wanted.

Of course, he’d have to figure out a way to assure the mysterious head of the terrorist group that had tried to smuggle guns, using his dock, that Sandy had no idea that he had been working undercover, nor was there anything in the house that could incriminate him.

But he would work that out later. Right now he just needed to get the drive and get out of the house without Sandy hearing him.

As he started to open the nursery door, he heard a sound from behind him. He stopped dead still and listened.

Nothing. What had he heard, exactly? He reached for the knob and heard the same sound again. It was soft and low-pitched, and his heart wrenched when he realized what it was.

That was Sandy. He was sure of it. She was talking. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. She should be sound asleep. She was a lark, an early riser. She’d never stayed up past midnight or gotten up later than seven or seven-thirty. Although she was pregnant now, and he remembered his mom telling her that she’d be going to the bathroom almost constantly by the time the baby was born.

That was probably it. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom. On the other hand, maybe she was talking or moaning in her sleep.

He waited, listening. He was in no hurry. Once she settled down he could sneak out without her ever knowing he’d been there.

He stood there on his left foot, flexing the right, trying to stretch and exercise the muscles that were left beneath the ugly scar where Boudreau had stitched up the gaping wound. Point then flex. Point then flex.

After a few moments without a sound, he turned the knob again. He was just about to push the door open and slip into the nursery when he heard a familiar sound that twisted his aching heart even more. The sound of Sandy’s bare feet on the hardwood floor. Then the knob on the master bedroom door turned. Within the couple of seconds while he wondered if he had time to push the door open, slip through and ease it shut, the master bedroom door opened and his wife stepped through it into the hall.

In the dim glow of a night-light from the kitchen, he saw that she had on pajama pants and a little sleeveless pajama top that stretched over an obvious baby bump. She’d hardly been showing at all the last time he’d seen her.

He stared at her smooth, rounded belly barely covered by her pajama top. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to feel the movements of the tiny little child growing inside. He had missed her so much, and here she was, close enough that he could reach out and take her into his arms, and he couldn’t.

If she knew he was alive, she would be furious—more than furious—that he’d let her believe he was dead. She wouldn’t understand the danger. She’d spent her entire life in the belief that just because he was with her, she was safe.

That was the one thing about her that had always awed him.

Sandy had always believed in him.

He just prayed that she loved him enough to forgive him for this unforgivable hurt he’d caused her.

She yawned and pushed her fingers through her hair, leaving it sticking out in tangled waves all over her head. He smiled. He knew her, knew her every move, her every little gesture. She was three-quarters asleep, padding on autopilot to the kitchen in her bare feet. Her habit of getting a drink of water without ever completely waking up might save him if he stood perfectly still. Often, people only noticed things that moved.

He concentrated on keeping his bad leg still. If he tensed it too much, the muscles jerked involuntarily. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

Shock flashed through his body like lightning and instantly the muscles in his right leg cramped. He clenched his jaw. Was she talking to him? He couldn’t move. Didn’t dare.

“Ow. Watch it, bean. I know I woke you up. Just need some ice for my water and maybe a couple of crackers. Kinda nauseated,” she murmured, rubbing the side of her belly. “Then we’ll get back in bed.”

She wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to her baby. To their baby. Tristan’s eyes stung. It hurt his heart to know how much he had missed. He’d been gone too much, working on the oil rig for two weeks or more at a time, and he’d missed most of the pregnancy. And now...now she thought he was dead.

He held his breath as she took her first step up the hall. There was no way she could pass by without seeing him. He debated whether he should speak to her or wait and let her notice him on her own. Which would be less traumatic?

Sandy jerked as the baby’s foot knocked the haze of sleep right out of her head. “Oh, why do you have to kick, bean,” Sandy said, rubbing her belly. “One day your foot’s going to kick right through—”

She gasped and stopped cold. What was that? Her heart suddenly vied with the baby’s foot to see which could burst through her skin first. She pressed her fist to her chest.

Dear God help her. There was someone there. In the dark. Right in front of her. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were numb with fear.

“Who are you? Wh-what do you want?” she asked, trying to force a cold sternness into her voice, but hearing it quaver.

The dark shadow didn’t move. She took a step backward as the nausea that had woken her hit her again. She felt hot and cold and terrified.

“Get out,” she said hoarsely, then filled her lungs and shrieked, “Get out! Get out now!” She ran out of breath too fast. Her heart was drumming against her chest wall now. Boom-boom run! Boom-boom run! Boom-boom!

“Sandy,” a voice that could not possibly be speaking said.

She recoiled, her back slamming against the wall. Her throat closed up. Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen. Another scream built behind her throat, but when she opened her mouth all that escaped was a quiet squeak.

She pressed her hands flat against the wall behind her, as if she could make it move, and dug her heels into the hardwood floor, trying to get away from the thing that was hovering in front of her. “Oh, please,” she whispered desperately. “Come on, Sandy, wake up. Stupid dream.”

“San, you’re not asleep,” the voice said gently. “Don’t be afraid.”

She tried one more time to get air past her strictured throat into her lungs, but she couldn’t. Her fingers curled at her constricted throat, then stars danced before her eyes and the next thing she knew, she was crumpled on the floor and the wet, haggard ghost from her nightmare was crouching above her, dripping water on her and calling her name.

“I’m asleep,” she muttered. “In bed, asleep.”

“You’re not asleep,” a familiar voice said softly.

“No, no, not again,” she whispered, shaking her head back and forth. Then she felt a wet hand on her cheek and she squealed and propelled herself backward as fast and hard as she could, but she was already up against the wall.

“No!” she cried. “No, no. Get away.”

“Sandy, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She felt his hand and the soft whisper of his breath against her cheek. Water dripped down his pale, drawn face, just as it had in her dream.

She understood now that on the night of his funeral what she’d seen had been a dream. He’d hovered by the same window where Patrick Cho had peeped in on her. But unlike Patrick, Tristan had been insubstantial, a shimmering awful specter that had dissolved into nothing as she’d watched.

Tonight he was not dissolving. She touched his face. “Tristan?” she whispered. “You’re real.” It wasn’t a question.

The water dripping off his hair and clothes was wet on her skin. The face she was touching was sickly white, yes, but it was warm and fleshy and, most important, it was not fading before her eyes. She grabbed a handful of his hair and squeezed it. Her hand came away soaking wet. She looked at it and laughed, but the laugh turned into a sob.

His brown eyes turned darker. “I’m real,” he said, his mouth stretching into a wry smile as a dampness glistened in his eyes.

She sobbed again and put her hand over her mouth, hoping to stop the hiccuping sobs before they stole what little oxygen she had left in her lungs.

“It’s okay, San. It’s okay.”

“How—” She reached out to touch him, hesitated, then gingerly touched his shoulder. It was firm, strong, alive. Oh, dear God.

She met his gaze and found him watching her intently. He didn’t try to pull her close or hug her, and she was fine with that.

He was here, and his hair was dripping with real water and his face was damp. But there was a part of her that was afraid to trust her own eyes and ears and fingers. She looked at her hand, then back at him.

“San? It’s okay,” he said again. “It’s me.”

The voice. The eyes. “It is you,” she said. “How? Shouldn’t you be dead?”

“Almost was,” he muttered. “How’re you doing? How’s—”

“But where?” she broke in. “Where have you been? Where did you go? It’s been two months!”

“Boudreau found me. He’s been taking care of me.”

“Boudreau? You mean you’ve been right over there all this time?” She dug her heels into the hardwood floor to push away from him.

“We. Buried. You. We had a funeral. We cried. We mourned you. I thought I was going to die because I would never see you again. And you were less than a mile away the whole time?” She pushed at his chest and he almost toppled over. He caught himself with a hand to the floor just in time.

“Sandy, it’s okay.”

“Okay?” She laughed hollowly. “You think so? I wake up in the middle of the night and find my dead husband sneaking into my home and looking cornered when I run into him. What the hell are you doing here?”

Suddenly, the floodgates opened in her mind. Thoughts and questions whirled around in her head so fast that she could barely speak. As soon as she started to demand one answer, another question pushed its way to the forefront, insisting on being asked. A still shot of memory flashed across her inner vision.

The casket at the open door of the DuChaud vault as Father Duffy deliberately turned her away from the sight and asked her a distracting question.

She stared at him in horror, her mouth turning dry with trepidation. “Who was in there?” She pressed a hand to her lips. “Who’s in the vault? Who’s...buried in—” she giggled a bit hysterically “—in Tristan’s tomb?” She hiccuped.

Tristan stared at her for a brief moment. “My...tomb?” he echoed, as if the fact that a casket was placed in the DuChaud family tomb had never occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes burning like dark fire.

Then he sat back, put his hands on the floor and maneuvered his left foot under him. She could barely see his face, which was in profile to her, but his jaw tensed and he bared his teeth as he used just his left foot and his hands to push himself to his feet.

She watched and realized why he’d almost toppled over when she’d pushed him.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

He finally got himself upright. He stood with his head bowed, his breaths sawing loudly in his throat. He flattened a palm against the wall to steady himself. In the dark, his pale face floated above his dark clothes like a disembodied head.

“What happened to you?” She was still sitting with her back to the wall. She pushed herself to her feet, murmuring to her little bean encouragingly as she stood.

“It’s okay, bean. You’re fine. I’m fine.” She looked up, realizing that her fear and panic had drained away and the only thing left inside her was anger, rising to the surface like a bubble in a lake.

“Tristan? Talk to me,” she said through gritted teeth.

He glanced at her sidelong. “Sorry, San. It’s a long story.” He huffed. It could have been a chuckle, except that his expression didn’t change. “A very long story,” he mumbled.

The bubble burst and fury washed over her like a red tide. This was Tristan, standing in front of her. He was real. And he’d been alive. All this time, he’d been alive. “A long story? That’s your answer?”

She realized that the anger felt good. It didn’t weigh on her like grief and sorrow. It invigorated her. She clenched her fingers into fists. Her husband was alive and she was pissed off.

He glanced at her for an instant, then looked away. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. I should have been in and out of here in, like, two minutes.”

“In and out?” she echoed.

He spread his hands. “I don’t know where to start. It’s—”

“A long story. Yeah. I got that,” she said. “Not a problem, sweetheart. I’ve got all night.”

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