nickname made her pause before taking the first sip of coffee. Where was Paulina this morning? Had she checked into a motel or crawled into a hole and pulled it in after her? Had she stayed safe last night? Had she gotten anything hot to eat?
Was she crazy?
Martine had tried to put all the memories behind her when she got back to the shop yesterday, a task made easier by an influx of tourists. They’d worn a variety of N’Awlins T-shirts, a few had sported Mardi Gras beads or feather boas around their necks, and they’d done their best to project the carefree, good-time-in-the-Big-Easy air that most tourists came by naturally, but it had been a struggle for this group. Even inside the brightly lit shop, they’d huddled together in small numbers, their voices muted, lamenting the lack of sunshine and the mild weather they’d expected. They’d been worried without knowing why, and they had cleaned the shelves of every single good luck charm and candle in sight before leaving the way they’d come.
After the shop was closed, after Martine had finished off a po’boy from down the street and locked herself inside her cozy apartment, the memories had come knocking again. A search of the internet had proved true one of Paulina’s claims: Callie Winchester had died three months ago in Seattle. The details reported by the news outlets were scarce, but the obituary confirmed it was their Callie. Her parents, who’d once lived two blocks from Martine’s family, were now in Florida, and her twin, Tallie, made her home in London.
Callie...dead. Though Martine hadn’t seen her in twenty-four years, though she hadn’t thought about her much in twenty of those years, it hurt her heart to know she was dead. Callie had always been so vibrant, full of humor and wild ideas that usually ended in trouble for all of them. She’d been beautiful, with sleek black hair that reached down her back, olive skin and gray eyes, and she’d done a perfect imitation of her posh mother’s British accent, but there had been nothing refined or elegant about her huge booming laugh. Tallie, identical in every way except the laugh, had compared it to a braying jackass, which merely made Callie laugh even harder.
And now she was gone. Someone had stolen her very life and discarded her for someone else to deal with, as if she were no more important than an empty burger wrapper.
That thought raised goose bumps on Martine’s arms and stirred an ache in her gut. She was browsing through the pantry, looking for something to settle it, when the doorbell rang, echoing through the floorboards.
The clock on the microwave showed the time was 7:23. No one came to visit her before nine, and rarely without a phone call to alert her. Maybe it was just some punk, walking along the sidewalk and pressing doorbells. But no sooner had that thought cleared her brain, the bell rang again, seeming more impatient. Her nerves tightened, and apprehension throbbed behind her eyes. Whoever was downstairs on this ugly dreary morning after her ugly restless night couldn’t possibly be good news for her.
Unless it was Paulina, come to take her up on her offer of coffee and beignets.
Hope rising over the dread, Martine hurried down the stairs as the bell rang a third time. Reaching the bottom, she jerked the security chain loose, undid the dead bolt lock and yanked the door open, prepared to meet her friend with a smile and a comforting hug—
But it wasn’t Paulina. Jack Murphy stood on the stoop, dressed in the white shirt and dark suit that were his usual work clothes. He looked as if he’d slept in them, hadn’t had time to shave and had forgotten to comb his hair, and his eyes were dark and somber with shadows.
Panic clutched Martine’s chest, cutting off her breath. “Oh, God, please tell me nothing’s happened to Evie or the kids.”
His eyes widened, an instant of alarm followed by sudden regret. “No. No, God, no, they’re fine.”
Her knees going weak, she sagged against the doorjamb, one hand pressed to her chest. “Aw, jeez, you about gave me a heart attack! Don’t do that again!” For emphasis, she poked him with one finger. “Not ever!”
“Is she always this ditzy?” a voice drawled from the curb, and Martine realized Jack wasn’t alone. He’d brought along her least favorite police officer in the world—her least favorite person. It was too damn early in the morning—too damn early in the year—to face Jimmy DiBiase.
Especially when she was wearing what passed for pajamas and a robe: tank top, shorts, an old boyfriend’s flannel shirt. She was exposed from the top of her thighs to her bare toes, to a letch like DiBiase with a freakishly cold fog silently creeping everywhere. No wonder her skin was crawling.
She was torn between slamming the door and fleeing upstairs to wrap up in her favorite quilt and inviting Jack inside while pointedly leaving DiBiase in the cold. Neither action would surprise Jack; he knew DiBiase was an acquired taste for most women besides strippers, hookers and cop groupies.
Then the realization clicked in her brain: Evie and the kids were okay, but Jack was still here, still in work mode. That meant someone else... “Who is it? Anna Maria? Reece? Jones? Alia? Landry?” Her brain was spewing forth names faster than her mouth could get them out.
Paulina’s voice sounded faintly through the mist, sending a bone-deep shiver through Martine: They’re coming after us, and they’re not going to stop until we’re dead.
Dear God, could it be her?
“I’m sorry, Martine,” Jack said. “I’m handling this badly. We’ve got a...victim.” The grimness returned to his expression. “No ID, nothing but a call to your shop yesterday afternoon.”
Martine thought longingly of the quilt, and of the coffee she’d left on the kitchen counter. She needed warmth. She needed a lot of it to melt the ice that suddenly coated everything inside her, slowing her heartbeat, making it difficult to breathe. Paulina had warned her, had told her they were in danger, and Martine had done nothing. Had let her walk away. Had let her die.
Because she knew in her heart Paulina was gone.
“Oh, God.” She swayed forward, and a hand caught her arm, holding her steady. It was a big hand, strong, the skin olive-hued, the fingers bare, and the overcoat sleeve above it was gray. Jack’s overcoat was black. She knew, because she’d helped Evie shop for it. Which meant this coat belonged to DiBiase.
The hand holding her up was DiBiase’s hand. For one brief moment, she let herself accept the warmth and comfort and strength that seeped from him, just one moment when she was too weak to do otherwise. Then, with the stubbornness she’d been legendary for back home, she tugged free, folded her arms over her chest and hid her fisted hands against the soft flannel.
“I guess you should come in.” Her voice was flat and numb, a pretty good match for the dismay and sorrow building inside her. She’d been a fool for letting Paulina walk away. Paulina had obviously not been herself; she’d needed taking care of. Needed someone to pretend to believe her, to take her home and help her until she was better able to help herself.
Twenty-four years ago, Martine had been the person Paulina turned to first, before anyone else. Oh, Tine, he broke up with me for good. Tine, I’m failing algebra, and my dad will take my car away for sure. Tine, my mom and dad are fighting again. Tine, I think I’m pregnant, but I’m too young to have a baby!
They had been best friends—had had a bond that should have been unbreakable. But now, after all those years, when Paulina came to her again, Martine had let her down. She hadn’t even tried. She’d just wanted to get out of the cold and go back to her shop and take care of business. She’d wanted to stuff the past back into its cramped little corner of her brain and never
