walls again as if the wind had captured the ghostly cry, beckoning her to listen. Reminding her that she wasn’t alone in her pain and suffering.
Stiff from sleep, she stretched her limbs to force the circulation back around, an exercise she did routinely after her long hours in bed, then pushed her feet to the floor and into her slippers. She grabbed her thin cotton robe with one hand and shrugged it on, the other hand self-consciously touching the bandages on her face. At first she hadn’t ventured outside the room, but lately, as she’d begun to heal and regain her strength, she’d taken daily walks.
The rehab facility was situated on acres of private property by the river, surrounded by the backwoods, offering privacy and seclusion for its inhabitants. During the day, other patients strolled the gardens or rested in their wheelchairs in the shade of gigantic live oaks. Some gathered to play cards in the solarium or watch television together in the common game room, but she had yet to join the social scene. Although others suffered injuries, scars, some disfigurements, hers had been one of the most severe cases the hospital had seen, or so she’d heard, and she hated the gossip and stares that accompanied her outings.
Padding slowly, she opened the door and peered into the hallway. Shadows flickered across the corridor. The dim light from the nurses’ desk down the hall was just enough to allow her to see without being so stark it hurt her eyes or highlighted her own morbid appearance should another patient pass by. Blessedly, though, she was alone.
The cry jarred the air again, a low sob, then another. Realizing the sound originated from the room next to hers, she tiptoed toward the closed doorway.
Inhaling a deep breath and hoping her mummified face wouldn’t frighten the neighboring patient, she gently pushed on the door. She would just check and see if the person was all right.
Inside, a small night-light in the shape of a duck sent sparkles of faint yellow light across the white sheets and shadow-filled room. The bed seemed to swallow the tiny figure who lay curled into a ball, facing the window. Dark brown curls cascaded down the child’s back, her little body jerking up and down with her cries.
Tears sprang to Crystal’s eyes, but she blinked them away and slowly tiptoed into the room. The little girl turned toward her and lifted her face slightly, her arms in a death grip around a big brown teddy bear. She looked so lost and alone that Crystal’s heart clenched.
“Hi, honey,” she said softly. “My name is…Crystal.”
The child’s eyes widened momentarily, and Crystal wondered if she’d made a mistake in visiting, if her bandaged face terrified the toddler even more. Then she realized the little girl was Hispanic, and wondered if she spoke English, so she introduced herself in Spanish.
A second later, she realized she’d just learned something about herself. She was fluent in the language.
“Are you a ghost?” the little girl asked.
Crystal laughed softly, then they chatted for several minutes. The child’s name was Maria, and she’d lost her mother in a car accident the day before. Maria’s nana was supposed to come and get her the next day.
The self-pity Crystal had wallowed in for the last few months dissipated as compassion for the toddler mushroomed inside her. She sat down beside the girl, then read and sang to her until Maria finally fell asleep.
As Crystal made her way back to her own room, questions taunted her. Where had she learned to speak Spanish? Maybe she’d worked with children. Could she possibly have a child of her own?
IN THE DEN, Mr. Dubois sipped his coffee. “Damon, you will be at the upcoming Memorial Day celebration, won’t you?”
Damon poured himself a cup of his parents’ choice rich chicory blend. “I don’t know.”
The last thing he wanted was a commendation for honor and bravery now.
Laughter erupted in the background, drawing him back to the moment just as the doorbell rang. His sisters and mother were discussing baby names, debating over French versus American. Jean-Paul argued that they had to focus on boys’ names since the firstborn would certainly be a son.
The doorbell dinged again, and Damon frowned into his coffee, then gestured to his father that he would answer it.
Who the hell was stopping by on a Friday night unannounced? Not that he should be surprised that his parents would have company. They’d made a wealth of contacts and friends through their restaurant. And they had donated both time and money to so many charities following the hurricane that they were practically local celebrities.
Leaving his coffee cup on the table, he rammed a hand through his hair, then answered the door, hoping it was some salesman he could vent his anger on.
Instead, Lieutenant Phelps of the NOPD stood on the stoop.
A pair of silver-gray eyes wrought with turmoil met Damon’s.
Not a good sign.
Lieutenant Phelps nodded. “Special Agent Dubois.”
A formal greeting. Also not good.
“Lieutenant? What’s going on?”
The man’s eyes shifted over Damon’s shoulder where Antwaun stood in the shadows of the entryway’s arched doorway that led to the hall.
“We’re here on official business,” Lieutenant Phelps stated. “I need to speak to Antwaun.”
Antwaun made a grunting sound in the background and Damon silently cursed.
“Guys, why don’t we discuss this tomorrow?” Damon suggested. “It’s Friday night, and we’re having a family gathering.” As if a Friday night had ever dissuaded him from following a lead or pursuing a case.
Behind Phelps, Antwaun’s partner, George Smith, shifted nervously, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
“Sorry, guys. But you were both at the crime scene. We’ve ID’d the woman and have evidence that has to be answered for.” The lieutenant’s ruddy complexion colored with distress. “Antwaun, we need you to come with us for questioning.”
CHAPTER THREE
ANTWAUN SCOWLED. “Are you arresting me?”
Phelps frowned. “Do we need to?”
Damon stepped up to run interference. “Lieutenant…we’ll meet you at the station.” He turned to his parents and tried to quiet his mother’s shocked cry that seemed to still reverberate in the room. Injecting a calmness to his voice that he’d learned from his military training, he said, “Maman, Papa, don’t worry. We’ll clear this up and be back later tonight.”
“Antwaun…what’s going on?” Daniella screeched.
“Son.” Pierre pressed a hand to Antwaun’s shoulder. “Whatever you need…you can count on us.”
Antwaun’s eyes turned a tortured black. “I’ll straighten it out,” he muttered. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”
Jean-Paul appeared, a frown marring his forehead. “What in the hell is this?” He glared at the lieutenant.
