terrified eyes were reflected back. That and images of a long-ago time she’d thought she’d forgotten. Of a terrified little girl and a man she refused to speak of….
She spun around, ran into the bedroom to grab her purse and retrieved Detective Dubois’s card. She had to report the break-in. Show him the red teddy.
But if she did, he’d ask more questions. Want to know more about her and why this psycho had decided to stalk her.
She’d thought today’s note had to do with the magazine. But what if it had something to do with her past?
D-day—the day she’d died and started a new life.
No, it was impossible.
Maybe she should just pick up and run again. She could start over. Find another job. A new name. A new city.
But the face of the young woman who’d died rose to haunt her. She was so young. Hadn’t deserved to be left in the bayou for the mosquitoes, snakes and gators to feast upon.
Memories of the night she’d fled into the bayou rushed back. She’d been dirty, hungry, terrified and so thirsty she’d hallucinated. She’d seen the devil and other wild, mysterious creatures in the marshy swampland.
And now, thirteen years later, another one roamed the streets….
She couldn’t run this time.
Not with the dead girl’s face etched in her mind permanently. It would stay with her no matter where she went. And so would her guilt and the memory of her sins.
The only way to escape them was to pay her penance.
Maybe by helping to find this woman’s killer, she could finally receive forgiveness.
LOUP GAROU—the swamp devil.
Jean-Paul grimaced. The local PD had already dubbed their newest killer with the name. The fabled creature lived on in the minds of the Cajuns as real as the day the legend started.
Only a devil could leave a woman the way this sicko had—helpless, dead, exposed in the heart of the untamed bayou.
Even though it was late evening, Jean-Paul met his captain and partner at the ME’s office. When he showed the photograph to his partner, Carson, and his lieutenant, Phelps, cursed.
“I’m sending it to forensics, although I doubt we’ll find prints,” Jean-Paul said. “Maybe they can trace the photocopy paper.”
Phelps frowned. “The son of a bitch is bragging about the murder.”
“Did he really expect that magazine to print this?” Carson asked.
Jean-Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. But for some reason, he wanted Britta Berger to see his handiwork.”
“Because of her column?” Phelps asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe there’s a personal connection.” Jean-Paul recalled her reaction to the photo. She’d definitely been shaken. And he sensed she didn’t like cops.
He’d run a background check on her to find out the reason.
“Maybe he knows her,” Phelps suggested.
“Or wants to,” Carson added.
Phelps nodded. “That’s possible. If so, Britta Berger might be in danger.”
A frisson of unease rippled through Dubois, heating his blood. He’d arrived at the same conclusion on the way back to the precinct. What if this psycho didn’t stop at one victim? The symbols he’d left reeked of a ritualistic killing.
The ME, Dr. Charles, appeared in his office and waved them back to the crypt. “Have you identified our Jane Doe yet?”
Phelps snorted. “No, we’re searching all the national databases but so far, no hits.”
“We’re checking the universities and clubs, too,” Carson added.
Jean-Paul sighed, already tired and the investigation was only getting started. If the vic was an out-of-towner who’d come for Mardi Gras or to cash in on the heightened prostitute business during the festival, the identification process would be more difficult.
Phelps cut to the chase. “What did you find, Dr. Charles? Anything that might help us?”
“Nothing conclusive yet. Except that the girl didn’t die from the chest wounds. I suspect she might have been poisoned.”
“What kind of poison?” Jean-Paul asked.
“I don’t know. I’m still running tests.” Charles indicated one of the containers from his handiwork. “So far, her stomach contents don’t reveal traces of a poison so she didn’t ingest one. I didn’t find any injection marks on her body, either.”
“Keep looking,” Phelps said.
“Any evidence of rape or a date rape drug?” Carson asked.
Charles shook his head. “Not so far.”
“Which meant she agreed to have sex, then things got out of hand,” Jean-Paul surmised. “Once we ID her, we’ll start with her boyfriends, lovers. All her male acquaintances.”
Jean-Paul’s cell phone trilled and he unpocketed it and hit the connect button. “Detective Dubois.”
“Detective…this is Britta Berger.”
Alarm shot through him. Her voice sounded shaky, frightened. Had the killer contacted her again? “What is it, Miss Berger?”
“Someone broke into my place tonight,” she blurted. “I…think it might have been the man who killed that woman.”
Jean-Paul’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Keep the door locked and don’t open it for anyone.” His pulse kicked up a notch. “I’ll be right there.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BRITTA TWISTED HER fingers into the thin fabric of her skirt.
Stay calm, she reminded herself. You don’t have to tell him about the past. This killer has nothing to do with that. It’s impossible.
Still, she paced to the window and searched the busy street below. Was her intruder out there, watching?
Chilled by the thought, she wrapped a small throw around her shoulders. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it, trying to settle her nerves. But every whistle of the wind and every screech from the streets below alarmed her. Every man…posed a danger.
Dammit. She thought she’d left her fears behind. That she could finally look toward a future. But now this psycho wanted to take her peace of mind from her.
Why? What had she done to him?
She dragged in a breath and reminded herself she was
