asked the right questions fifteen years ago. I’m here to ask them now. And I want answers.”
“So what do you need me for?” She shook off his hold. “I can’t stop you from asking questions in Azalea Bend. You want to play private detective, go for it. You don’t need me. You’ve even got this supposed forensic report. If there were scrapings taken, have them retested.”
Something flinched in his eyes at her obvious doubt. “The scrapings taken from Aimee’s fingernails are long gone.” He watched her steadily, letting go of her arms but not moving out of her way. “They disappeared when the original report was suppressed. Someone took them, Bryn. Probably the same someone who suppressed that report. But there was someone else in Azalea Bend who had scratches on their face that night, someone else who had a reason to kill Aimee—and I’m going to find out who it was. But I don’t have a prayer without you, Bryn. You’re a Louvel. That still means something in this town.”
“I can’t help you.” Her entire being wrenched. She’d spent years trying to put those horrible events behind her. To put Cole behind her. And now that she’d finally started building a new life, Cole was here, asking her to dredge it all up again. “I can’t relive the past.” And she couldn’t believe what he was saying. No one else could have killed Aimee that night. No one else had a reason.
But he wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “The original scrapings may be gone, but Aimee’s body hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s in St. Valerie’s Cemetery. It’s not too late to take new scrapings—”
Oh, God. “No!” Horror washed over her. He was sure she held the key to gaining the answers he wanted, and now she knew just what he’d do to force her to help him.
She could see the small muscle twitching in his jaw.
“I’m sorry, Bryn,” he said hoarsely. “I hate this as much as you do.” He lifted his hand, brushed his knuckle across her cheek. “I don’t want to see Aimee’s body exhumed. That’s not what I’m asking. There’s more than one way to find the truth. But people in this town aren’t going to answer my questions readily. They’d answer yours, though—if you help me. We can look for the truth together.”
Together. The words seemed to hum in the air between them.
She could so easily fall into those dark-rimmed, soulful eyes, eyes that looked no longer dead but very much alive and hurting, just as she was hurting. In spite of everything he’d just said, his agonized eyes drew her in, made her remember how much she’d loved him….
Bellefleur receded around them, leaving only Cole’s eyes, Cole’s touch, and the memory of one steamy night by the river’s edge…
Her legs wobbled beneath her.
“Bryn…” Her name came out throaty, husky, and he was so close.
Fifteen years vanished. She wanted him, just as she had in those halcyon summer gardens long ago. His lambent magic pulled her in, overwhelmed her, threatened to sweep away her reason. She should hate him right now for shattering her delicate peace, but instead she ached—had ached for him all this time….
A pounding from the front hall jerked through her clouded senses.
Bryn struggled for air, for rationality. She wasn’t sixteen. And he wasn’t that young boy. He was a man, indurate and cold, and he’d just threatened to have her sister’s body ripped from hallowed ground.
She pushed past him, hobbling as fast as possible to the front door and away from Cole, snatching a pair of sandals from a hall closet on the way.
Officer Martin Bouvier was a couple of years younger than Bryn, but she’d gone to high school with him. He came from a long line of cops, and he did his job methodically, without emotion. He recognized Cole right away.
He took their statements, sealed up the brick and the note in plastic bags, and didn’t offer much in the way of encouragement.
“Unless something else happens and we get more to go on, there’s probably not much we can do.” Martin watched Bryn from the torpid shadows of the portico. He nodded at Cole, standing behind Bryn in the doorway. “How long’s he staying?”
Cole stepped forward. He was invading her space again.
“Indefinitely,” Cole said.
She gave him a glare, then looked back at Martin. “He registered for two weeks.”
“You might want to consider cutting short your stay.” Martin’s voice was even, non-threatening, but she saw Cole’s eyes burn in response, the solar flares lighting within the caliginous green.
“I’m here on business,” Cole clipped out. “And I won’t be leaving till it’s finished.”
“Let me know if there’s any more trouble,” Martin said, directing his words to Bryn before heading down the steps.
The sound of the cruiser’s ignition filled the thick night, then faded away as the taillights disappeared up the long drive. Bryn turned back to face Cole.
She could still see the flash of bitter pain in his eyes from Martin’s advice. But she couldn’t afford to feel sorry for Cole. He’d chosen to come back to Azalea Bend.
He hadn’t given her any choice at all.
Bryn stalked past him, leaving him to shut the door. She stepped around the mess of broken glass. She was way too tired to clean it up tonight. All she wanted to do was go back to her bedroom and forget this day had ever happened.
Ha. As if that was going to happen. But she could try. At least till morning, when she’d have to face him all over again.
She used some plastic and tape to seal up the broken window, ignoring Cole. Finished, she headed for the stairs, put her hand on the balustrade.
“Bryn.”
She froze for a brief beat. Tension bristled behind her. She could almost feel his eyes on her back, pulling her, making her turn.
His grim visage made her wish she’d kept right on going up the stairs. Damn him for making her feel like the bad guy in this situation. She couldn’t stop him from looking for this truth of his, whether he was right about the past or not.
And how could he be right? Why would anyone else have killed Aimee? Nothing about his claims made sense. Wade Dempsey had been the one with the grudge against the Louvels. The one making threats. The one who’d charged back to Bellefleur drunk, looking for revenge. The one who’d been found with Aimee.
How dare Cole expect her to help him now? She wanted to charge right back down the stairs, shake him, strike him, do something, anything.
Then he did something. He closed the space between them in two heartbeats.
“We weren’t finished with our conversation,” he said quietly. The bright candescence of the chandelier played unforgivingly on his features. God, he was good-looking. Always had been. But now his face was etched with experience, and yet within those austere lines she could still see the boy she’d loved.
His tormented bayou eyes had her aching with a raw need. They’d both given in to that need
