

The Journey

VOLUME 2 OF THE VENGEANCE CHRONICLES

ANTHONY AARON RICHARDS

#  Copyright © 2020 Anthony Aaron Richards

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed "Attention: Permission Request Coordination," at the web address below.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, places, events, names, and incidents portrayed are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover design by Rose Miller

Interior designs by Anthony Aaron Richards

Editing by Isabelle Felix

Printed in the United States of America

www.aarichardswrites.com

# Dedication

'I'm a dreamer. I have to dream and reach for the stars,

and if I miss a star then I grab a handful of clouds.'

— Mike Tyson

To the Didn't Make Its...

All the women and girls who we have lost

to the carnage of human trafficking and abuse.

To everyone who has helped me

through the years...

Believe me, putting this adventure together

has been a wild ride.

To my wife...

Thank you for putting up with me

and the writing life.

To all my children, all six of them,

and my family that reads this...

Yes, I can count.

Justin, Joshua, Josh, Jake, Mariah, and Jesse.

Without them and their inspiration,

I couldn't have written on,

and let's not forget Shayla,

the daughter with a tail.

To my editor...

I'm sending many smiles out to her.

She has really kicked me in the ass and

gotten us over the mountain and into the future.
Chapter 1

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MIRROR

"Some people give themselves over

to their most evil desires, and those people

become evil. But in general, it's reductive

to think of evil as something foreign

and separate from the rest of us.

Evil is part of everyone. We all

have the capacity to commit evil acts."

— Bill James

If the FBI hadn't suspected me before, well... I buried my head against the steering wheel, considering what Jack and Oliver would do if I just returned the damn car. Except, there was no way I'd ever willingly go back to the Bayou. Maybe I didn't have to, though. Maybe they were already waiting at my house. I could meet them, and what? Throw myself into a holding cell for them?

I clenched my fists. Home wasn't an option, not that night. Once I wrapped my head around that, it took me about eleven stoplights, seven left turns, and one hundred ninety-two mutters of "shit" to remember Sara had leased an apartment in the quarter just minutes away from my house. She had pointed it out during one of our day trips, but everything looked different at night. I frowned as I neared each garage, testing Sara's remote key and praying no one would call the police on the car creeping by.

Finally, one door lifted, number C-1, which I figured would be her apartment as well. I parked and went up. The old speckled glass door creaked open like a horror movie—you know, since I hadn't had enough of that. Inside was dark, but it carried the smell of vanilla. Sara's favorite. "So sexy," she would've said if she hadn't been displayed on that plank like someone's sick idea of a trophy.

I stayed by the door, adjusting to the darkness. The only source of light seemed to be a candle night light that had to have been set on a timer; it gave a dim amber glow on a settee in the foyer on the left side. I dropped myself on it and ran my hand across the fabric and cush... very nice, very inviting, very 1700s French in style. It was just like Sara to choose something like that.

Her smile, her laugh, her dead eyes, they all flashed in my head at once. I gripped the edge of the settee as visions of the tree, the lightning, and the fire assaulted me, too. All Sunday night, there I had been, schmoozing at the firm's cocktail party hosted by Norm, while Sara had been at the Bayou suffering under the hands of her killer—if only she had just come to our dinner as planned, or if I had pushed during the week to see her, maybe then none of this would've happened. My body shook and my knees buckled as I tried to stand. Keyword, tried. My eyes rolled to the back of my head, and I hit the floor in a dizzying mind spasm, trembling, shaking, pulsing, going over.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was face down on the floor with some brown glass bowl under my right arm and its content of mail all over the floor. I pushed the bowl away, then pulled myself up against the settee.

Morning was fast approaching, and Sara was still gone. It was strange to think in that way. I mean, such a magnitude of loss wasn't new for me, but a part of me still expected Sara to call and apologize for missing our dinner date. I stared at the mess on the floor, as if it would tell me what to do next. In its silence, my throat became drier and I realized Jack hadn't come banging on the door yet. A good sign, right...? Maybe he still didn't know about the apartment? I couldn't recall him mentioning it when he'd been at my house or the Bayou.

Good—that was fine. I didn't want him barging into Sara's space anyway. That apartment was, no, it had been her secret sanctuary. How long had she lived here exactly before she finally showed up at my doorstep? Had she been afraid? The whole thing with Sara was such a damn shame, a very, very painful shame.

She had wanted to tell me something big that day at the Bayou. Did it have anything to do with why she had been killed? That thought haunted me endlessly, but a voice inside screamed for me to focus on each passing minute. That was all I could do.

I cleaned up the mess, placing the glass bowl with its mail back on the side table, then I dragged myself up to scan the clean, crisp, French-inspired apartment. The living room area was to the left of the settee with its upholstered loveseat and matching corner chair. Behind the sitting area stood a round shaped ornate table with really dead flowers in a clear vase. Next to the table, on the right, was a big gaudy bookcase that took up the whole wall between a small nook and a little galley kitchen with an open concept.

Nothing seemed strange, except the apartment didn't seem lived in. No papers lying out, no shoes, no closet, no bed. Where had she slept? What was I missing?

I moved through the picture-perfect space and came across a little window in the kitchen. Three branches of a rose bush peeked over the sill from the outside. I had to climb up on the sink just to peer out and find there was, in fact, a connected terrace. I looked back at the area beside the kitchen, but there weren't any other openings or doors. I tried to open the window—no luck. It was painted shut. But one more look told me the bathroom and its window were to the right. I climbed down from the kitchen sink and headed over there. I had to pee anyway.

The latch on the bathroom window popped up easily, and I stared out onto the terrace. The sun was about to wake and music played close by, real music. I hung halfway out, peering around before I started climbing again—because why not, right? Wrong. My shoe got stuck on a nail in the window frame. That sent me face first down to the tiled floor of the terrace, and this time, Jack wasn't there to pick me up like he had done the day before. So, right on that tiled floor, I took a second to lie there, wondering what the hell I was doing, climbing things, running from the police and the FBI, snooping around Sara's apartment... Really, what did I think I was doing?

I didn't have an answer for myself, but I believed Sara would've done the same if our roles had been reversed...

Anyway, I eventually pulled myself together enough to see that the terrace overlooked the streets of the French Quarter and the Mississippi River. The view was breathtaking, and the sun had nearly disappeared behind a group of clouds coming onto the Quarter. Down below, all over the city, lights began to pop on. On the corner, a group of street dancers met to divide the take from the night. A little boy tap danced his way from the group, heading down the sidewalk, hopefully going home for some sleep or to get ready for school. Did Sara love that terrace view? I'd never get to ask her.

I glared at the air and frowned at the nasty dry dead feeling in my mouth. I needed my toothbrush, coffee, and poached egg to help me get through that morning... Was it safe to go back home, or would I have to stay away for forty days and forty nights? For all I knew, the police really could've had someone staking out my house. Not to set myself as their top priority, but I had to be smart about this since they knew my face—just like they knew Sara's car. I needed to get rid of that Bug. Having it was probably making me look way too guilty, but if I brought it to my house and made it easy for Jack to find? That'd be better, right...? I had to chance it so they could rule me out and stop wasting any possible second. Plus, my place was close in terms of driving distance, not walking or jogging.

"Just a couple of pedals, street dancers, and a Voodoo shop away," Sara had said.

I laughed, then took a breath of deep sadness for a long moment. My sister was truly... had been truly... one of a kind. I shook those thoughts away, running through the plan one more time. I'd drive her car to my place, pack some things, and leave. But there was a strong possibility Jack would find Sara's apartment before I could return and make my next move. Looking back, that pressure had been what had kept me going instead of falling apart completely. Still, at that time, I needed to throw Jack and everyone else off. I was so desperate I almost googled ways to escape agents, detectives, and cops.

Marbella had great weather that time of year.

I scolded myself. Sara had been killed, and I was thinking about the coast of Spain? Her murderer was still out free. There was no way I'd actually leave the country until that piece of shit paid for what he, she, or they had done to Sara, and to me. I hugged my middle, riding out the wave of rage and pain. I'd never get to smile with Sara, or speed around the city with her, or find the answers about our parents with her. And I needed that fucker writhing at my feet, explaining to me why.

A sharp knock and bang on a door sounded just then.

I threw myself under the terrace lounge chair, thinking Jack and his crazy crew had found me, but it turned out to be someone else at another door, pleading for some woman named Lea to take them back. Holy shit was I in need of a real getaway. Well, as real as I could make it seem. A long European trip with no end date definitely wasn't in the cards for me, but it might not have been a bad idea to make everyone else believe it. I could book the flight, call the firm partners, well, Norman—that way, they would understand I needed to clear my head. Norman was the go-to partner to pass on messages and to help get things done. That was what managing partners did, right...?

What else? I also needed to draw some money since I wouldn't be able to use my card until only God knew when. The airport had ATMs, meaning more goodbye evidence, a very good thing. I could take an Uber from my house and then make sure the airport cameras caught my face as I went in, like on TV. Then, somehow, I would slip back to Sara's place, if it wasn't infested with the FBI and police by then.

OK, maybe that plan was fucked. The Uber from my house would be fine, but airport security checked ID to keep track of the people who were actually getting on the planes. I needed a plan that would make Jack believe I was really gone in the wind, and rightfully so.

Still, faking a skip out of the country seemed like the only way. The airport might've been shit, but it was the best shit out of all the shit that had become my reality. I had to get over there, let myself be seen, then get out unseen. How?

I did have some of Sara's clothes at my place. She was the total opposite of my style. If Jack had been paying attention to me at all, like really seeing me, then he would be thrown off, right...? I could change in a restroom, then slip away and Uber to the café at the end of Sara's block, just in case.

The stars were losing their shine by that point, and the morning mist was rolling in off the Mississippi. I only had a little darkness left. If I was going through with my plan, I had to get moving that second. I climbed back in the bathroom window and headed out of the apartment. A big blue floppy hat hung on a hook next to the front door; I grabbed it because, why not?

I ran down to the Bug and backed out slowly, looking in every direction possible, praying FBI agents and the cowboy police of New Orleans wouldn't pop out as I sped off to my place only blocks away. As I rounded the corner to my street, everything looked OK. One of the old green street cars passed by like they did every morning, afternoon, and evening. There were no strange cruisers anywhere; nothing seemed out of place in the predawn hours of a day. I relaxed my shoulders and rolled up to the house next door to mine. Ms. Carolina was out of the country, visiting her son in England. I still made sure the coast was clear before I went any further.

I cut the lights in my own driveway and looked around one more time. Everything seemed fine, so I jumped out of the car and tripped on my freaking steps as I slipped in through the side door. A great super 'eluder of the law,' right...? I headed to my bedroom, pushed some crap in a suitcase, and gave myself a shot of perfume. Then, I called an Uber before the partners, well, Norman. That was hard, but they were totally behind me, encouraging me to take all the time I needed.

"Does this mean someone will have to water your plants again?" Norman asked.

That grabbed my attention. Normally, if I ever left my house for days, I'd leave sticky notes for the plants and air conditioning control. I had to do the same right then; that way, no one would be the wiser. At least I hoped... I wrote three notes and placed them in front of my green dial phone, a leftover from when the 70s had been in town. The fridge was lucky enough to get a sticky, too, reading 'Please eat the yogurt...' I imagined Jack would come across the notes soon. By the time I was finished with them, the honk of my Uber came.

I hit the door and locked it, possibly for the last time. What a thought. I rolled my suitcase down the walkway, and off we sped to the airport. I closed my eyes as we drove. The driver respected my space and didn't say a word. Once we reached the airport, he dropped me curbside. I shot to the nearest overseas desk and picked up my boarding pass for Spain.

After security, I waited by my gate, tapping my fingers on the seat and wondering how I'd get my ticket to the gate staff without looking like a weirdo. I don't remember the exact details—with all the adrenaline coursing through me—but I zeroed in on one woman who had booked the same flight. She seemed nervous or stressed, so I pointed out the nearest bar. I watched her walk over, order a drink, then two, then another... She'd make a fun Saturday night wingwoman, but that was beside the point. My heart raced as I quietly slid up beside her, checking the cameras before I switched our tickets on the bar. It was a now-or-never move since a large crowd of arriving passengers was heading this way and I needed that cover to help me disappear unseen. Just as they engulfed the area in front of the bar and the restrooms across the corridor, I went for it. I zipped through the sea of people and right into a stall. Forget racing, my heart was hammering in my chest.

No one came after me, yet my heart still pounded away. I rummaged through my suitcase to see what I could change into, and somehow flung a bra into the toilet. Perfect, I know. But I found the clothes Sara had on that first night she'd been at my place. With her blue floppy hat, the disguise would work perfectly. It had to. I waited for another crowd before dipping out of the restroom like a cool-ass-yet-lowkey tourist. The coin operated lockers were just to the left. After about thirty days, the airport would get rid of my unmarked luggage, a common occurrence, and if I ever changed my mind about it, I had that much time to come back and get my things. Satisfied, I popped my case into number 124, then moved for the door.

Flagging a cab wasn't easy, but at least when I told the man Café Beignet in the French Quarter, he knew the place and headed there. That would bring me just down the street from Sara's place. I left my hat on to cover my face, and to my luck, he didn't seem to speak English, so score one for me.

Thankfully, traffic was light that morning. Score again. We got there in less than twenty minutes, and I paid the man in cash before I ran into the café. I ordered some brain liquid and took a sip before heading out the back entrance and landing on Sara's street, not too far from her apartment. I looked around before I ran up the stairs and unlocked the door. There, I had to take another second to look in all directions, in every window, at all the cars; I saw no one and no shadows. Now inside, I shut the door behind me and fell back against it, half expecting Jack and his team to be standing there waiting, but nothing. I just closed my eyes and slid to the floor in relief. I took in as much air as I could and thanked God that I was in the clear.

Was that really a good thing, though?

I gave myself a minute before I pulled my body up and walked to the middle of the room, remembering what I had seen the night before and that morning. Like the window. I went into the bathroom, sat to pee, then climbed out of the window yet again, without falling this time. I sat in a lounge chair just to the left of the window and sipped the rest of my coffee. The view of the morning sky from the terrace at that hour was inspiring. With that view and the morning air stirring, I must have fallen asleep. The sounds of a trumpet playing nearby finally woke me. Holy shit was probably my first thought since it had just been about evening by then, which meant I had slept through the day.

Night was settling in, and the lights downtown started to flip on again. Some people below in the courtyard spoke loudly as they began to gather. They lit a small fire in a stone pit in the middle of the courtyard that joined the buildings. I watched them talking and laughing together. Another group of guys began to play music in the corner. That made me smile for a brief moment, until the vision of Sara hanging in that tree flashed in my head again, sending me to my knees.

I held my head, curling into myself and rocking back and forth before I fell on all fours. My brain was on fire, and I threw up spit worse than a fucking cat. The pressure split my head in two. Then, more flashes of Sara came, going wild. I rolled on the terrace floor, squeezing my skull in pain.

My body jerked and shook, like at the tree. I must've blacked out at some point. When I opened my eyes, I was looking up into the night sky. Music played from below, and a plane soared above with its lights blinking against the stars. As it flew out of sight, I sat up.

My vision was still foggy, but I noticed I was now staring at two French doors I'd never seen before. Were they part of Sara's apartment? I crawled over to them and tried to look in; they were locked, of course, and lined with thick black curtains. How curious... I tapped my finger on the floor three times and sat back on my legs, looking at the building and how it was constructed—you know, being an architect, after all. The French doors had to be part of the apartment. I jumped up and pulled at them, trying to force them open. Nope, they wouldn't budge.

I went back to the window, slid my skinny ass inside, and rip, that damn nail caught the back of my sister's jeans. I cursed and shot out of the bathroom, to the living room area. That night I had first laid eyes on Sara standing in the rain ran through my head while I fingered the new hole in her jeans and scanned the wall that divided her apartment. The only thing on there was the large bookcase. It spanned at least six feet and was floor-to-ceiling high. The bookcase was even painted the same color as the walls, making it blend in really well. Plus, there was nothing on either side of it. Not even pictures on the wall. Just blank space. Why?

I began pulling out books to see what was behind them—nothing but solid wood. I looked for anything that would move; I tugged and prodded all over. Still nothing. I noticed near the top of the bookcase was a painted pipe that ran through it and stopped about three feet on each side near the ceiling. It was hidden by a wood flap thing built into the wall.

I jammed my fingers between the center divider of the bookcase and pulled as hard as I could... Nothing budged, but I was onto something. I stood back and played with it in my mind, trying to figure it out. The case must've been built to move. I started to look for a lock or latch. Some moving part or piece had to be the answer.

Nothing. I began jerking all the books off the shelves and onto the floor. I even yelled, "Open sesame," then clapped my hands twice to see if that would work. I climbed up on the small ledge to get a better look at the top as well as the top shelves. That was when I found a black pull latch carved into the side panel. Two snaps, then I pulled both latches and jumped down to see what would happen.

Again, I dug my fingers into the case's center divider and pushed. It glided open, each half to one side, with a click, clack sound as they rolled. There, thick black curtains met me with a satin lining so red—a blood red. I grabbed each panel and yanked them open. I wasn't expecting them to be so heavy, but they opened, and shit was it too dark in that hidden room. A moment passed, and it didn't change.

Still too dark to see much past my feet, I fumbled around for a light switch, but nothing. I ended up inching my way as I felt around the room. Both sides of the walls were empty, no switches. Small bits of light did come through something at the other end of the room, though. I turned to head towards that, and I nearly smacked into a large wooden table centered in the room. I made my way past it, stumbling, and found where the light was coming from.

The French doors.

When they weren't locked, they must've opened out onto the terrace. From the feel of them, curtain panels hung on both doors. I jerked them apart as hard as I could, and yet, I wasn't ready for what laid in store for me as I turned around. I froze in amazement, no, shock, wondering if I was still unconscious...

A gothic dungeon? In the middle of New Orleans? I wanted to just run out right then, but I had to go all the way with this if I was going to find out what had happened to Sara. Her apartment was my only lead to hunt down that murdering bitch of a son. I took a breath and stepped forward. My eyes went right to the table in the middle of the room. A ten-foot, solid, thick, Gothic, very heavy, mahogany wood table. At the head of it sat a lone chair...

There was a large chandelier hanging over the table with candles instead of light bulbs. On the opposite side of the room, another set of black curtains hung. At the end of the table, facing me, was a large tapestry of something. It was too dark to make it out. I could, however, make out another object hanging from the ceiling, held in the air by four chains hooked to said ceiling. I frowned and rubbed my temples to that bizarre discovery.

Then, I noticed a freaking webcam sitting on a hidden caddy-corner to my left. It was aimed at the table, but was camouflaged within a couple of tall fake plants. Real plants couldn't live in that dark dungeon, for sure. My mind raced with all kinds of things in that moment, and more oddities popped out at me. Like the little square tables along the walls on both sides; they were all filled with candles.

Old wax that had melted and dripped over the sides of all those tables had formed cascading wax waterfalls to the floor. My eyes kept widening, but one table did have a box of matches on its corner. I struck one, then lit the candles all around the room. Everything really came into focus. I was in a room straight out of the Game of Thrones or something—right there in New Orleans. GOT was a controversial yet sexy show, by the way, that I never imagined living out in any fashion. When I finished lighting those candles, I climbed onto the top of the large dark table that took up most of the room to light the chandelier. I stood for a moment, as the other candles flickered all around me. I took in every inch of that gothic nightmare. I mean, it was dark in every way your mind could go, every single way... I didn't know whether to cry or run, run fast?

It was clear that Sara was involved in two completely different worlds—two very conflicting worlds at that. The disturbing one involved a webcam, and a lot of wax. What had happened to the little girl from my past, my baby sister? I jumped down and made my way back into the living room, hoping to find who she had become, trying to take everything in, the real Sara. I ran my fingers across pictures, table tops. I sat in all her furniture; I touched everything and still had no clear idea. As I sighed, the CD from Sara's car glinted at me, the one that I had laid on the floor after I had first come in and sat on the settee.

"Come on, girl, talk to me. Help me understand who you were. What did you almost tell me back at the Bayou?"

An old CD player sat on the shelf next to the fireplace. I laid the CD in and pushed the only button I saw. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine, which I needed, really needed, after everything I had found so far. I tipped the glass up and swallowed the whole thing, then poured another and sat down in front of the fireplace. With my free hand, I popped a log in and struck a match. Fire flickered with a crackle, then the warmth from it hit my face. I stared at the flames for a second, then two, then three... I got lost in the fire, and the flames took the shape of the shadow people from the Bayou.

The CD finally slid itself into wherever it needed to be, and the music started playing. Soft Celtic, if I had to guess. Rich tones, all female. I let the sounds take me, and I began to drift away, which I needed most right then. The wine was helping a lot, too.

The drifting landed me back in the kitchen, pouring more wine. After I filled my little buddy, I looked down at the glass itself—it was more of a gothic goblet than a wine glass. "So, I'm getting gothic for everything tonight. Cheers to that!" I went back to swaying, sliding, walking, and sipping to the tunes from the CD, not my normal music but it kept my attention.

I danced throughout the apartment, wall to wall, just lost, then suddenly I was in front of the dark curtains I had closed earlier. I reached up with my free hand and grabbed the one on the left. I jerked it back, and the room was exposed again. I stepped through the curtains and eyed the French doors, the doors I should've opened earlier; I didn't waste my second chance to do so as the lights from the city beamed up from the streets below and the whispers of New Orleans music filled its streets. Those beautiful French doors that Sara had locked led out to a rooftop wonderland. Who could've asked for more than that? My sister had been sitting on top of the French Quarter's lifeblood.

I was a little jealous as all the nightcrawlers disappeared into the little shops, restaurants, and nightclubs for blocks. The jazz and blues playing in those clubs drifted up and mixed in with the other music filling the apartment. I reached the terrace's edge to watch the city some more. That night, the sky was a stark black, lit with millions of stars. They lit the city I loved like fireflies.

Between the wine, the music, and the city view, I was just so deep into being in a nice new place when a certain song from the CD hit the speakers, 'Playing with Madness.' I focused on the lyrics... The words took over every inch and ounce of me. I wanted to feel that way all the time, but more than that, I needed to find the creep who had played with my sister. Yes, played with her. And now the FBI and police were playing with her case. And me? I wanted to play, too. Play in madness, be a little dark and nasty myself.

Those innocent days from the summers at the Bayou were long gone, just a memory. But not forgotten, never forgotten.

# Chapter 2

The Puzzle

"I've never been a big cinephile which may

be why I could treat 'The Clock' like a

puzzle and force the pieces to fit

together in odd ways."

— Christian Marclay

The Fire Chief cleared the area where the charred body and tree were. The same body and tree that could've once provided Jack and the other investigators with ample evidence and clues. Now, it was the same body that had been struck by lightning, causing irreparable damage—severe burns, blisters, deeper cuts, fractures—and the tree that had been incinerated by the freak spread of fire. All that evidence, gone.

Oliver was over at the base of what was left of the tree when out rang shouts from a local CSI. "In the cabin. I need Jack, now!"

Jack and Oliver exchanged a look before running to the cabin. Jack, being in the lead, met the CSI at the door.

"I went over this cabin myself," the man said. "But someone must've come in here after the first sweep. They touched things, moved things, and found things. I'm sorry I have to ask, but that woman you brought with you? Did—"

Jack pushed past him, stopping at the items lying on the kitchen floor. He barked, "Has anyone seen Raven since the lightning storm yesterday?" The room fell silent...

"Oliver, get a car to her place and try her phone. Hey, send someone to her job also."

Oliver didn't waste a second getting on the radio to set everything in motion. A long, heavy sigh escaped Jack as he crouched down and went over the evidence Raven had touched: Sara's torn blue shirt and bloodied purse. Jack knew it was Raven who had come in here. Could he blame her? He probably would've done the same if he'd been dragged to the murder scene of anyone he loved.

He barked more orders. "Bag everything and get me all the prints you can. I mean fingerprints, palm prints, lip and toe—yeah, you bet your ass I said lip and toe prints. I want anything we can get, guys. I'm serious. Look for them in places you already checked. Look for them in places you wouldn't check if no one was watching you, like under that loft rail. Think as if you were standing on the ladder, holding on to it. We have to think like they would—start, just under the rim of the table also, as if you were lying on top of it and grabbing the edges. Don't forget the leather straps on the ladder and the corners of the table. I want them all printed. Remember, we need to get the stuff to my lab, not local—my guys, only my guys at the FBI field office in Baton Rouge. No one else is to be trusted with this stuff!"

Oliver broke from the radio and looked over at Jack. "Are you officially taking over this case? You know what that means, right?"

Jack sat back on the floor and didn't say a word, just stared at the evidence in front of him. Oliver had known Jack for years, and he knew when Jack was taking over a case.

Oliver pulled out his cell from his pocket and called FBI agent Elizabeth Jane Brady, Jack's second-in-command. "Lizzy, this is Oliver. I think you had better get down here. Jack's at it again... He just hijacked my case, and we both know what that means. He's got something."

She didn't hesitate. "We're thirty minutes out. Loading up now—Oliver, does he need anything?"

Oliver laughed. "A clean shirt and drawers would be nice. I'm telling you he hasn't stopped since yesterday."

It was her turn to laugh. "That's our boy. See you in thirty. Text me where you want us."

Oliver walked over behind Jack and put his hand on the agent's shoulder. "What do you see, brother?"

Jack looked up. "This guy has been doing this shit for a while. Ollie, I feel it—this crime scene was too easy. Just look how he displayed her in the tree and how all of this is turning out. He's a killer, a very good one! Can you have your guys look for any similarities to anything like this in your area? Wait, go wide with this. Call Domingo." That was Special agent Domingo Alvarez, the computer whiz kid on Jack's team. "Have him give you our access to VICAP"—the Violent Criminal Appreciation Program—"to keep you off anybody's radar. And don't forget NCIC"—the National Crime Information Center. "And, Oliver, has anyone found Raven yet?"

"We know she took Sara's car, and it's now in her driveway along with her car, but she's not answering her cell or her house phone. I have people ready to go in. I can get a warrant in ten—wait, Jack, the guys I sent to her office. They just called in and said they were able to talk to Raven's partners. Apparently, Raven has left for Europe to clear her head, saying she couldn't handle this and needed to get away. Their words, Jack."

The FBI agent dropped his head and told Oliver that this was his fault. He had made the decision to take her to the Bayou. He knew that would screw her up, but he needed answers fast. Hence, the fingerprints she had left on the juice box that he had given her in the cruiser. They could legally run those against any evidence obtained from the crime scene. Even still, none of that was the best move on his part, especially since Raven had touched things in and been around the cabin in the week prior.

"Damn it all," muttered Jack, under his breath.

Oliver frowned at him, then got the car. Jack stayed pretty quiet on the way to Raven's house.

About the time Jack and Oliver rolled up to the house, second-in-command Lizzy was standing in the driveway on the phone. She was making hand gestures in the air to whomever was on the other end of that call. She looked pissed.

Jack laughed and shook his head. "Did she miss me, or did you call her?"

Oliver didn't pay any mind to Jack as he stepped out to hug Lizzy, who threw Jack a small black duffel and said, "You need to change your drawers, Boss. The rest of the team are at the Bayou and airport now. What a mess, lightning burning the body. You can't write that shit up."

All Jack could do was smile. "We wouldn't have it any other way, now would we, Lizzy girl? Did you happen to see anything in the house before we got here, by the way?"

Lizzy walked over to him. "Well, she's gone. That's for sure. She flew out this morning at the Louis Armstrong International Airport, and there's no end date on the ticket. She left notes all over the place for plant care and lights. I'm not even kidding. This chick is very organized and thorough. Makes you wonder what the bag she packed looks like..." Lizzy scrunched her mouth to the side. "She must've used an Uber or a taxi to get to the airport. I have Domingo looking into that now. EJ"—that was Special agent Elsa Johansson—"is after the security tapes. It's a small airport, so we may get lucky. We're doing everything we can at this point. Do you suspect her, Jack?"

He looked at Lizzy for a moment. "No, not at all. It wasn't smart for her to take her sister's car, but I don't think she was involved in the murder—and I don't like her being out of our reach, just in case this guy decides to come after her, too."

A car pulled up to the curb. It was EJ, with her hands full of tapes from the airport. The Special agent was shaking her head as she approached. "Jack, nothing—your girl went through security and flew out through Gate B12, heading to Spain. If you want to check it yourself, have at it. I could hit the house with Domingo and see what you guys missed, after we clear it. We just need your green light to set up shop here." EJ nodded once and slipped into the side door of the house, not waiting for an answer.

Jack shook his head and stripped half-naked in the driveway, talking to Oliver and Lizzy as he changed his shirt and dabbed on some deodorant. "We need to hear from the boys in Baton Rouge. We need to know if they have anything yet."

"Jack, that search you asked for, for the display killer? I'm heading back to my shop to see what my guys have found," said Oliver as he jumped in his car.

Jack looked at Lizzy and mumbled, "Fucked this one up. We lost any evidence on the body, and even the ground around it, the damn tree. That bastard's been lucky so far."

Lizzy had that bulldog look on her face. "This was too elaborate for just a kill, though. First timer? No way. He must've done this before."

"My thoughts exactly," Jack said.

Lizzy stood even straighter and continued. "Our profile, so far, has this guy pegged as a very organized killer and a sadist, a sexual sadist to be exact. The display of the body tells that story. We don't know why yet, or what his motivation is, or what gratification gets him off yet, but we will hit on something, then we'll know his victimology and be able to track him."

Jack nodded and headed for the house.

All the investigators and the FBI team were standing in the kitchen when Jack and Lizzy walked in. "OK," Lizzy said. "What do we got?"

EJ began to tell them that Raven's place was neat as a pin, with nothing they could use.

"OK, guys." Jack slapped his hands together. "We need to set up camp somewhere. I'll call Oliver and get us a place. I'm thinking in Ascension Parish, near the murder site."

Lizzy turned to him. "Do we have an address on the victim?" The room went silent. "Why haven't we checked out her place yet?"

Jack smiled. That was two questions. He proceeded then to tell her the address they had for Sara was a P.O. Box in the middle of the French Quarter and, to top it off, that P.O. Box was in a shop. The keeper had no real records to go on—'all cash,' no cameras anywhere, not even outside, just the lingering smell of pot. "Oliver and his guys were there yesterday."

Domingo looked up from his computer and explained that we should stay in the city. "There are more tracks here than at the Bayou. We have a P.O. Box for our victim and Raven's house."

That made sense to Jack, and if he was being completely honest with himself, his gut had been telling him the same for a while.

EJ stood up from the kitchen bar stool, her Swedish accent coming out stronger with each word she spoke. "Well, you guys. Oliver says the shop with the P.O. Boxes is actually a stoner's haven for pot shipments. We have the address of said shop, but we don't actually have a number for which box is hers..."

Everyone in the room snapped their gazes to Jack. But EJ's news was the first Jack had heard of it. "How can that be possible?" he asked. "We went through her purse, car, and registration. Did we not get anything? How about Raven's stuff? She must have an address for her sister." Jack waved a hand in question before he spotted the counter Raven had been cleaning the day before, when they had first arrived at her home.

Lizzy walked over to Jack and put her hand on his shoulder. "Boss, somehow the car registration is under the P.O. Box shop's address. They are both in the wind, literally. We have nothing on Sara, and now, not even fingerprints—everything went to hell with that lightning. Your girl Raven is gone with no trace as well. Her cell is still off or dead, so we can't track her, and we've ransacked this place, getting nothing. All we have, Jack, are the clues from the cabin. Maybe there's DNA on the shirt, but we can't be sure if it's from the killer or just a guy who fucked his girlfriend there one night. Basically, we've got a dry hole."

Domingo turned his computer around to show Jack that the nearest cameras to the P.O. Box shop were about three blocks in all directions. The city had not yet installed public security in that quad. Domingo spoke up with, "Why don't you have Lizzy and EJ go talk to the shopkeeper and all the workers? You know, see if the ladies can jog their stoned-out memories, or sober."

Jack considered it, then gave a curt nod. "Ladies, would you be so kind as to take the picture of Sara and Raven over to the shop and see what you can dig up. And Oliver, can you—I mean you and your best guy—go back to Raven's office to see if you can find an address for Sara, or anything."

"Hold on," Oliver said. "Are you referring to the picture you gave Raven the other morning? Wasn't that the only picture of Sara we had...?"

"Shit. Are we the FBI or the Keystone Cops?" Jack ran a hand down his face.

"No problem, Boss. We'll look through Raven's office to see if we can find another picture."

Everyone in the room stopped and turned to look at Oliver.

"Boss, you said 'Boss'?"

"Well, this crap happens every time I work with him, every damn time. And I had better grades in college than he did."

That lightened the mood just a little, just enough, in light of the big investigation that happened to be stalled at the moment. The team gathered their stuff and headed out in different directions to get some work done and find something, anything.

Jack stayed behind as they left. He walked back into the living room and sat on the sofa where he had sat with Raven before. He needed to reflect back on the events of the past two days, so he slid down and placed a pillow behind his head while stretching his long legs out in front of him. He had his pistol in his left hand, out to his side, safety on, but it was ready like always. His only mistake was closing his eyes. He was out in a second, fast asleep, which he needed.

The whole while, Raven, Sara's Raven, his Raven, was only blocks away in the French Quarter. Raven was at this little corner fresh market grabbing some things for dinner. She was dressed to be invisible, like a total hippie with that blue floppy hat and big sunglasses. Sara's clothes were still on her person after the airport getaway. Her own mother wouldn't have recognized her—if she had a mother. She walked back to Sara's apartment and climbed the building's front steps when a young man whizzed by her. She followed him quietly with her hands full of food.

***

"Excuse me," I said, startling the kid as he was heading back from the direction of Sara's place. "Who are you and what are you doing?"

The kid fidgeted, still startled, and began babbling about being the courier, and that he was just doing his weekly mail run. He also apologized for letting me see him. I must've had a puzzled look on my face, as he kept babbling on about how he got paid generously every month to drop off mail here. His instructions? To choose different times and days of the month to do the drop. He was never to do the same thing twice, and the person who had ordered getting their mail that way preferred for him to do it on bad weather days. He never asked why. "I like the money, okay, lady? I never saw you, and your mail is inside, OK?"

He clearly had no idea I wasn't the person who lived there—and more that, the kid had said he'd been getting paid for months. Yet, Sara had told me she'd just leased this place recently, right...? Well, not exactly. I'd never actually asked her. I frowned and watched the kid leave before realizing I couldn't just let him do that. He could have answers.

"Who did you say pays you?" I called out.

He flinched but didn't turn around, probably thinking I was testing him, if not threatening him. He shrugged and fidgeted some more. "I swear I don't know anything. And the only thing I want is for the money to keep showing up in my account once a month. I do this courier thing for a couple of people, a-and go to school. That's all, lady. Please!"

I had to press this kid, to get all I could, anything. I tried to get the address where he picked up the mail. The kid pulled out a card from his pocket and shakily handed it to me, saying, "Please don't mention me to Big Poppa. I won't keep any more cards on me—really. You guys know the know, and I don't know anything. Please let me go. Please, lady."

"OK. That's a deal, then." I watched the kid scramble away this time before I jammed the key into the lock, set the bags in the entrance, and picked up the three pieces of mail that the kid had slipped through the slot. Nothing stood out to me, so I tossed each one into the bowl at the entrance, letting them join the other mail. But as the last envelope left my hand, my eye caught a flyer sticking halfway out the pile of old mail...

I pulled it out and stared at the picture of a gorgeous man on the front. His name was Collin Strapmore, of Strapmore International Properties, and they were hosting a gala that upcoming Friday night at the Monteleone Ballroom for the Lost Women of New Orleans. Something about that struck a chord in me as I sat on the settee, gripping the flyer. The date was circled in multicolored pencil with a smiley face and kissy lips drawn in. "Are you the one my sister was with? Are you my sister's killer?"

My mind raced for several minutes, even after I remembered the food that still needed to be put away. I stood in the small kitchen, my gut turning and flipping with questions. Did Jack learn of Sara's plan to attend Collin's gala yet? Or was he still trying to gauge me as a prime suspect? I needed to get the flyer to the FBI and let Jack run with it. A dangerous thought, I know, but then he would take that direction for a while and leave me be. That would be a good thing.

I put the floppy hat back on, then hurried downstairs to where I'd seen Sara's bike earlier, in the garage, when I had left to grab groceries. What kind of sister would I have been if I could miss that multicolored thing? I'd been in such a brain fog earlier, but now, up close, I took in the full name painted on the frame: Sara's Urban Machine, peddle me SUM...

I snorted with great sadness, hopped on, and sped off to my place. As I rounded the corner to my street, I kept an eye out, again, for any signs of the local police or the FBI. You know, strange cars, vans, or service trucks, anything out of the ordinary. I didn't need to get spotted or picked up by anyone. After all, I was supposed to be Spain, right...?

A grand old oak tree, nearly a block down, served as my lookout spot. I hid behind it and surveyed the house, my house. This whole thing was too surreal... I snuck across the street to Ms. Carolina's front gate, then rounded the side of her house. My flower-planting, jelly-and-jam making neighbor wouldn't be home from England for at least two more weeks.

I walked over to the waist-high fence between her house and mine, and stashed the bike as quietly as I could. Shadowy figures were definitely moving around in my house, mostly in the kitchen. I hopped over the fence and stepped closer to the back door of the mud room. My stomach tightened as I turned the handle to ease the door open and slide in. All good so far. I tiptoed slowly to the hallway, then froze. Someone was lying on my living room sofa. I could see their head. In a silent panic, I backed myself against the wall—but the figure didn't move. They just let out this God-awful noise that sounded like a bulldozer killing a mountain.

I took the first tentative step into my living room and peeked over the top of the sofa. Jack. It was Jack who was snoring like that in my house. I inched around to the front of the sofa, and just watched him sleep for a couple of seconds. I had a major choice to make—leave the flyer near him, risking it being obvious that someone had planted it, or put the flyer somewhere that would take him more time to find. My mind was everywhere and nowhere. I finally placed the flyer gently on his lap, just like he had done with the photo of me and Sara. I paused, part of me hoping he would wake up right then and see me.

Not that that was what I really needed at that moment, though. I quietly retraced my steps to the back door and slipped out. It was just as I headed for the fence when, from behind, a car with its bright lights on hit the driveway. I leaped and threw myself over the fence, falling into the English flowerbed down below. I stayed still just in case no one had seen or heard me, then blew out a breath at the squeaking of my front door. Whoever had arrived went inside, and I was in the clear. I thanked God and found Sara's Urban Machine before I made a mad dash for my neighbor's front gate.

It took everything in me to keep breathing as I gripped the handlebars and glanced back at the house, my house. I still didn't know what the future held at that point, or if I'd ever get to see my home again, but I knew I had to keep moving forward, for Sara. I pushed off with the pedals and rode into the night.

***

Lizzy and the team quietly walked into the living room to find Jack asleep and snoring on the sofa.

Domingo whispered, "Can I Instagram this?" The whole team burst out laughing.

Jack's eyes snapped open, and he bolted up. The flyer Raven had set in his lap slipped off, getting squished in between the cushions the more he rushed to make himself presentable. "How long have I been out?"

Everyone just looked at each other, not saying a word.

Domingo finally took a shot. "Long enough for me to get a hit on something you didn't ask for, Boss."

"OK..." said Jack.

"Sweat. We got some! The lab pulled some DNA from the whip we sent in. It belongs to a Romanian deportee by the name of Constantine Lanculescu. He was here on a work visa, screwed that up with a DUI charge, and then slapped a cop with a two-by-four, sending the officer to the hospital and Constantine back to Romania... Funny thing is, I also pulled a U.S. Driver's license and birth certificate under the name John Gardner from New Orleans—Iberia Parish, to be exact—and Jack, it's current. Iberia is next to Ascension Parish. It has to be the same guy. Two names, two IDs, that close to the murder site? And, yes, Jack, the address is a marina with boats and ships. The info is on its way to everyone's phones now."

Jack stood up and shoved his three-button shirt in his jeans. "Road trip, anyone?"

The crew packed up and strode out of the house like they were heading towards a free buffet. Jack was the last one to get to the SUV sitting in the driveway. Lizzy was already behind the wheel, so Jack jumped in the passenger seat. "Roll, Lizzy. Roll."

# Chapter 3

Playing with Madness

"You learned to run from what

you feel, and that's why you have

nightmares. To deny is to invite

madness. To accept is to control."

— Megan Chance

Sara's music, that song—'Playing with Madness'—drew me back to the apartment to explore her life some more. I didn't know who she had become after all those passing years, but I wouldn't stop riding around the NO or scouring her hidden wax room until I got all my answers. I would play with madness, my madness, from that point.

I stepped back into the secret room from the terrace, walked past the hidden camera, and stopped at that large Gothic table sitting dead center in the room. Shiny wax droppings dotted the middle of the table. If I had to guess, I'd say they came from the antique metal chandelier hanging right above, with its candles instead of light bulbs. How very romantic in a normal reality, definitely not in this one.

More wax, these of several colors, dotted around the table, almost in the same pattern that had been at the cabin. I pulled back the chair—the heavy Gothic throne chair—and then sat myself down, gripping the ends of the arms that were carved into lion's paws. I gripped them tight, really tight, until all the blood had vanished from my knuckles, before letting go. My hands shook as I held them together over the table, then placed them on top, running my palms back and forth across the old wood.

"Why didn't you tell me about any of this?" I asked.

Each corner leg of the table had ties on it, just under the top; they were woven leather strips. Again, like in the cabin. My mind was trying to grasp what all of that could mean, but buried deep, I already knew the answer to what she had done for pleasure or business. I just didn't know why.

The wax, the table, the lone chair, the hidden camera in the corner... What could've pushed Sara so far into a world like this?

I pushed away from the table and walked around it with my hand brushing the surface with just my fingertips. I reached the chair again, the only chair at the table. The rest of them were placed against the walls on all sides. I stepped up on the single throne chair, then took another step up onto the table, to gain perspective from above. Had this been her stage? It felt that way. A stage where she could be the master or maybe the toy—perhaps, in that room, in that world, Sara had found a way to take back control and express her self-empowerment?

It was just impossible to deny—the same outline that had been on the cabin table, the same outline of a body with the multicolored wax dots and leather straps. It was displayed for all to see, in person and on camera, as whoever came to watch the show took their seats.

What show had it been exactly? And who were the people who had watched my sister...?

I stood there for a couple more seconds, thinking, with the music from outside playing in the background. A tear dropped down my face as I unbuttoned Sara's shirt, then tossed it on the floor. Her jeans were next. I stopped for a moment, glaring at the camera, noticing my breathing was heavy and pressure was throbbing in my temples. Rage, sorrow, confusion, and excitement coursed through me.

Had it, the show, ever truly been self-empowering at any point, Sara?

I unhooked my bra and tossed it on the chair as I knelt down on the table and crawled to the center, minding the wax. There, I laid myself down under the chandelier, placing my body inside the multicolored pattern. I lay there, looking up at the burning candles. The flickering flames were hypnotic, as my mind began to run wild with thoughts of the straps around my ankles and hands, and a little drop of hot wax dripping down and landing on my nipple. Shivers racked my body.

I closed my eyes against the strange erotic sensation, seeing Sara, only Sara, standing on that swing at the Bayou. She'd wrapped the chains around her wrists, rocking back and forth. Another show. I opened my eyes just as a drop of hot wax hit my thigh. My back arched at the sudden sear, and I gasped as my hand travelled down my stomach to in between my legs, sending me into a deep orgasm... I popped my eyes open as I rode it out, only to cry out at the sight of Sara above me, facing me, naked like me, thrashing from an orgasm like me. And she smiled before she spoke one word, "Vengeance." Another drop of hot wax hit me between the eyes, sending me into a volley of flashes in my head of Sara, Jack, and the Bayou.

The flashes grew stronger and faster. I saw her, Sara, lying on the table with the room full of shadowy people, all with black capes on. Faceless masks covered them as they all circled the table. At the head of it sat a lone figure in a red cape and hood. Who could it have been? The supposed Big Poppa? That guy from the flyer? Someone else? Maybe whoever it was had been the same person who had gotten Sara into this world and then killed her when he was done playing with her? Was that how the game worked? Or was this all just a bad Tom Cruise movie baked in the weird culture of New Orleans?

Two more drops of hot wax fell from above. The first hit my cheek, and the other landed on my chest, pooling warmth low in my belly again. I began rocking while more wax hit my skin all over. My mind was like a camera taking shot after shot. My whole body trembled and wrenched with the full mind orgasm.

I had once thought it strange, the idea of pre- or post-funeral sex being a common occurrence. Yet, there I was, coming and crying as my mind went to all the dark places it could. From Sara's body hanging on the plank for all to see... to the pool of blood at the base of the tree... to her blood swirling in the Bayou... to the Bayou itself... to how rundown it had become... to the lightning strikes... to the fire... to Jack and his intense, smoldering eyes. Yes, his eyes, and that biting of his lip... back to the lightning... to my cabin... to Sara's shirt and bag...

What a double life she had lived, and possibly died for. Sure, I only had her back in my life for a few days, but I never would have guessed she made money doing adult webcam and live shows at her apartment and my old summer cabin.

It just goes to show you that anyone, any person out there, could live their lives like a Masquerade... The Sara I knew had her sweet hippie thing going, but behind closed doors, or curtains in this case, she had been Mistress Annie. And me? The name Mary Mary came to mind. You know, Mary, Mary, quite contrary—what would you make of this...?

I brushed my hands up and down my thighs and coughed past the lump in my throat. What a sight I'd be if anyone happened to burst in. I cried out for the third time at the thought, my body erupting in flames once more. After all, Jack was no dummy—his team would put the pieces together soon enough. Of course, that was assuming they had gone back into the cabin and found Sara's things on the floor. And there was that marked flyer of Collin that I had left for Jack, too. Looking back, ever since he had first arrived at my house, we had practically been working together towards the same end—oh, wait, he had and still has a badge, and I'm just a killer of killers. But in that moment, in Sara's secret gothic dining room, I rolled off the table to pick up the clothes on the floor. As I slid her jeans back on, I eyed the large tapestry on the far end wall. Such a beautiful, bizarre triptych of life, and damnation. Maybe even something I'd seen before in the city somewhere.

Still standing topless, and analyzing the tapestry, I remembered something from maybe three years ago, at Mardi Gras. I had been hiding behind a work friend who was showing her, well, you know, as we passed a window of a gallery over on Bourbon Street, maybe—yes, that had to be it. The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch.

All those years ago, my friend and I had stopped in a jazz bar just up the street for drinks and she had mentioned doing a paper on Bosch's work back in college. She described it as teeming with a certain adolescent sexual curiosity. She even said the professor had been all over her about it, and yes, she did do the professor... Was the tapestry at Sara's place the original? It seemed to have that smell of old and the feel of workmanship from a better time. The images were also very much in line with Sara's life; I studied them deeper. If the tapestry was the original, why and how did my sister have it? I needed to check out the gallery later.

I continued to walk the room, putting all the pieces together in my mind. I jerked to a stop in front of a purple painted door with a splash of deep red thrown on like a Jackson Pollock painting. I hadn't noticed it, as the door blended so much with the wall that it was almost invisible—well, besides the black and very thick dungeon-like knob. My guess? Behind the door would lie the missing bedroom, her utmost secret place.

I pushed on the door, entering what must've really been her bedroom. It was as black in there as the gothic dining wax room, and the curtains were closed. At first, I searched for a light switch, but finding nothing, I skimmed around for matches and my hand hit a box on the dresser near the door. I struck a match and lit all the candles in the room to see what Sara would shock me with next.

The centerpiece was a king-sized bed made from thick, black wood. It hung dead center, floating from the ceiling on chains. Yep, that's what I said, more chains... I pushed on the bed just to see. I had to, right? It rocked back and forth, with little creepy creaks and squeaks.

The chills came back, tingling and shooting all over my body.

At the foot of the bed, in the corner, was a very large framed mirror sitting on the floor and touching the ceiling. You could see the whole room looking back at you from the bed. To the right of the floating king, next to the dresser, was a plump black leather chair. I reluctantly sat down on the edge of it for a moment, to take in the room, the whole room.

The windows were covered in the same thick curtains as the wax room—those black and blood red puppies didn't let any light in, and they must've been a sound barrier, as no music from the city came drifting through either.

Between the flickers of candlelight, I could make out another door just to the right of the mirror. I swung the door open and stepped into a third gothic dream, to say the least.

The room was dark in color, with gold crackling up and down the walls. A large brass chandelier hung above a large tub. Candles filled its metal squiggles like the ones in the wax room and the bedroom. This place—along with the other secret rooms—brought on the strange, for sure.

The black polished tub, French in design, sat long ways in front of the only window in the room. A small ornate dressing table with a mirror flanked the tub to its right. To the left was a floor-to-ceiling mirror framed in a thick black wood; it seemed cornered to give the person in the tub a mirror image of themself. Sara had probably thought that was very sexy, and it was. I must admit, I was getting a little hot again.

The rush of heat passed through me, and I gripped the brass piping coming out of the floor at the foot of the clawfoot tub. It, the tub, had a raised back, almost like one of those lounge chairs you see in the old movies from the 20s and 30s, right? As I gripped the pipes and my body throbbed, I wanted to fill the tub with steaming hot water and bubbles, and lose myself in it for hours and hours. Had Sara relaxed like that before showing up at my door?

I became so caught up in my thoughts that I didn't notice the chair sitting behind me, an old French purple parlor chair sitting alone, about three feet in front of an armoire. The chair was just sitting there, but why? It was completely out of place. What am I saying? That entire place had been out of place!

So, I followed the strange and sat in the chair, checking out the large armoire that did match the rest of the room. Not only was it ornate, but it sat flat on the wall with potted plants on each side to complete the look. More truths about my sister could be in that armoire, waiting. Of course, I had to open it. I popped out of the chair and pulled at the brass handles. A gush of vanilla scented air hit my face. What stood before me was a space full of dresses, sundresses, evening dresses—all different lengths and colors—hats, sandals, and small purses. Nothing out of the ordinary. Absolutely nothing.

I stepped back and fell into the chair again, studying all her dresses. There was nothing strange or gothic about them. I pulled myself up and began to run my hands through the clothes, stirring up the perfume on them. Vanilla surrounded me. My heart skipped two beats and I lost my breath as I knelt in front of the armoire, staring at Sara's shoes. A draft hit me in the face just then. Finally, something strange. I stood back up to get a better look at the armoire itself. I ran my hands all around the wooden frame, noting a split in the top molding as well as the base. The split was sizeable enough to run from front to back.

I sat in the chair again, scrutinizing the armoire and the wall it stood on. Being an architect was sure coming in handy with all the mystery Sara kept in place. I anticipated as much as I dreaded the chance of finding anything that could lead me closer to her killer.

The walls to both sides were solid from top to bottom, with more potted plants in each corner. I needed a different view of the structure to get an idea of what I was working with. I got up and went into the wax room to check if I could see the wall from that side. There was definitely more wall length, about six feet to be exact.

Just to be sure, I went outside to the terrace and followed the wall. It wasn't connected to any other apartment, so I headed back to Sara's bathroom to find the mysterious passage into the unknown. I had no idea what I would find, but whatever was there had been hidden within three secret spaces for a reason, right?

# Chapter 4

Dress-Up to a

Discovery

"I'm on the hunt

for who I've not yet become."

— Unknown

I cupped my naked breasts in the doorway and just looked for a while, then sat in the chair and looked some more. What was behind the armoire? For one, no pipe rail, like the one that had been by the bookcase. No paint scrapes anywhere. Just more secrets. A shiver ran down to my toes as I sat back in the chair and daydreamed a little. How could I not? I really, honest to goodness, had fallen into some kind of nightmare. Daydreaming—well, architecturally daydreaming, that is—and considering all the ways that box could possibly open were keeping me sane.

The armoire was five-feet-plus wide, and floor-to-just-about-the-ceiling high. That must've been it, the answer. That there was no way the doors could've been real. Not for the front part of the armoire where Sara's dresses and shoes were. But just pulling open the armoire doors wouldn't cut it; I'd have to grab the handles and push them apart. It turned out that the whole thing was on large piano hinges, along the rear panel on the sides. That made each half of the armoire fold back against the wall, spreading wide for me to see the five-foot opening to another deeper mystery.

I stepped into the newest space, slowly, to take in what appeared to be a decked-out dressing room. The fact that her "normal" apartment led all the way to a hidden bathroom that was truly the entrance to some elaborate dress-up playground threatened me with yet another brain overload. I mean, the wall of wigs—long, short, red, black—and the rack of corsets were one thing. But the wall of, well, whips, chains, and things I had no idea how to use or where they would go? If I could've turned on my phone without alerting the FBI and the police, I probably would've googled a couple of them.

In the rear of this hidden room was a full-length mirror and makeup table that had a chair-like stool, the kind you'd see for an actress or runway model. Every piece of workmanship was very well done, very high quality. I walked over and dropped myself into the chair-stool, spinning in circle after circle until I got dizzy, drunk with curiosity and grief. This was her place, the place where Sara had prepped herself to live a life most wouldn't have understood or agreed with. Maybe not even me...

I raised my hands, still spinning, and jabbed my palms towards each corner of the room, like I could've somehow blocked the lens of any hidden webcam that way. Was someone watching me right then? My mouth dried, and I crossed my arms over my bare chest.

How had Sara done it?

Had she really enjoyed being watched? I spun a few more times in the chair-stool, until my gaze found the edge of that beautiful black tub. Many eyes, in person or through the cameras, could've viewed Sara's bathing. Speaking of which, I rose to my feet and turned the water on as far and hot as it would go, letting the steam fill the room. Over to the side of the tub was a metal basket of all kinds of bath salts. Of course, it wasn't hard to find vanilla. I poured it in and swayed to the scent and the music from the street. My underwear joined her jeans on the floor, and I wondered again if someone had a full view. My muscles tightened at that, but I'd already screwed myself on the Gothic table three times.

My face burned, and I quickly slipped one leg into the hot water, then the other, before I sank down into the vanilla steam. Once I was all the way in, I leaned back and slid further until my chin touched the water. The music outside seemed more alive now, trying to take me away to a relaxed place, a place where no one could touch me—a magic place.

It wasn't enough. I slid my head under the water to drown out the same recurring thoughts, like who could've killed my sister and where would I need to go to find him. Yes, the killer could've been a she or they, but I'll admit that my mind kept going to a he. What was he doing now? Hurting someone else? Watching me drown myself? I broke past the surface and sucked in huge gulps of air. It took a minute, but I regained control of my breathing and stared at the curls of steam filling the window.

I didn't know what to do next, or how to get justice for Sara, or how to make the pain stop, but that flyer. That drawn-in kiss of approval. That gala event with the Collin guy. It was tomorrow night, a whole twenty-four hours away. To wait around that long would've been excruciating. I couldn't even think about going to sleep any time soon and then waking up to another day without her. I needed something to keep me busy. Going to galas and putting on shows couldn't have been the only thing Sara did. There must've been other places she hung around, places with more answers and potential murderers. I bolted to my feet, checking myself out in the mirror and hoping someone was watching me. I gave them the finger.

Looking back, I guess I should've been worried that my mind was cracking, but I just walked out of the tub and stepped into Sara's play store, grabbing black panties, stockings, and a bra from a built-in drawer. If I was going to go hunting, I had to play the part, right? Sara would've done the same—at the very least just to show off her exhibitionist outfits. Thankfully, she had a tight, black, knee-length, leather dress that zipped up the back and had silver buckles down the front that actually fit me. I even found a pair of black, spiked heels to match. The first few times I tried walking in them, it was a depressing mess, but I eventually pulled it together.

Diamond earrings and Satine-style necklaces adorned the glimmering wall of jewels. I chose silver chains for my wrists and black-and-silver rings for my fingers. However, after holding out my hands, I couldn't help but frown at my nails, then my toes. Their French tips didn't match the mood I was embracing; they had to be polished black. And I couldn't forget a wig. Sara had so many to choose from. I reached for the white straight hair with fading black tips. No hesitation; it felt right for whatever would come of tonight. I smeared on a pale white base, blackened my eyes out, and blackened my lips as well. A silver lip cuff for my bottom lip gave a final touch... The person staring back at me was out of this world, so removed from myself. A Gothic Queen, right...?

I headed to the foyer where the brown glass bowl was sitting. I remembered the card stuck in the mirror—for a car company that wasn't Uber or Lyft. I hadn't thought anything about it before, but now with the rooms and the mail courier boy in mind, I picked up the card and frowned at the local number. No company name, just that number and a luxury car logo. What I didn't see back then, though, was the twisted arrow, like the one on my sister's neck, that could only be seen on the card with a UV black light.

Anyway, like every other old building in the Quarter, Sara had a landline. Yes, a landline. Mine was green with a round dial that was so loud when you spun it, whereas Sara's was Ivory White, which seemed to go with the front part of her apartment. I dialed the number, and the voice on the other end didn't hesitate; he just said a car was on its way and hung up. I held the phone for a second, completely and utterly puzzled. My heart quickened. Something strange was definitely going on, but I hadn't seen that coming.

About five minutes later, a honk sounded downstairs. As I bit my lip and stepped out on the street, a very tall, well-built man stood at the curb, holding the car door open for me. He introduced himself as Jean-Paul. He was dressed in a very nice tailored suit, much to my surprise by the way—I don't know why that was. Maybe I was too used to Uber or something. Anyway, I forced a smile, only nearly tripped once in those damn heels, and slid into the back seat. He shut the door and dipped into the front.

"Vulpea?" he said with a Haitian accent.

I could only blink, not understanding what that meant.

At my continued silence, he asked, "Where to, ma'am?"

I wasn't sure about that either. What a start, right? But I couldn't come up with any names. "The gallery." No, it was too late for that. "I mean, a club. I want to go to an underground gothic club. A naughty club. A dark club." The words kept pouring out.

"Ma'am, I know many, but I believe you're looking for the one off North Peters."

Jean-Paul took off, heading into the night and the downtown streets of New Orleans. He kept glancing back at me from the rearview mirror. My stomach twisted and knotted until I finally said, "Can I help you?" He jerked his eyes back to the road. He didn't say a word or look back again. At least, say for two minutes.

"Sorry, ma'am. It's just you're not the normal lady I pick up at that address." His eyes narrowed in on me.

I could've thrown up right then and there, but the fact that he didn't pull over to kill me, the imposter, gave me strength. "Jean-Paul... tell me about her, that lady."

He didn't say a thing. But I had to try again. He was obviously part of Sara's other world, and the whole point of that night was to get answers—or die trying.

"Have you lived here long, Jean-Paul?" Still no reply. Not even a glance in the rearview. My heart jumped as I realized how much I didn't want to end up like my poor sister. That night had to be about getting answers only, not dying. "I, um... OK, look, have I said something or done something to offend you?"

"No, ma'am. It's just I've been the only driver to the person who I usually pick up at the address you called from, and that very nice, very respectful person wasn't with you. I don't know what to think about you. Understand?"

His words softened the tension in the car. He either cared about my sister, too, or he was putting on a great performance. A fresh wave of sadness crashed down over me. If he was being sincere, then Jean-Paul must not have known Sara would never get to call him again. I couldn't tell him that, though. Just in case.

"Did you always drive Sara to the same place, or different places?" I asked instead.

"We are here, ma'am. Club Vaudou. Do you want me to wait for you?"

My mind raced in all directions. He clearly wasn't going to give me anything about Sara, which I couldn't blame him, but I still needed something. "Jean-Paul, please. What you said before. Vulpea, I think? What does that mean?"

He stared at me in the mirror for a very long time. "Fox. It means little fox in Romanian. A nickname of sorts," he added softly. We both sat quietly for another minute or two, as I tried to decide what to say next. I grimaced and looked out the window. We were in a less than nice place, of course.

The buildings probably used to be old warehouses. Jean-Paul had mentioned North Peters Street. We were most likely in an alley off that. Not a place for a club... more like meat packing.

Jean-Paul turned down another alley and pulled up to a set of stairs that led to a large steel sliding door with a man—a very, very large man—standing in the shadows. Jean-Paul stepped out and opened the door for me. As I got out, he gently took my hand, then whispered in my ear, "The password to get in is Good evening, Mr. Pierre. Act like you own the place, and try to be mysterious and confident." He straightened up. "Ma'am, on second thought, let me escort you in tonight." His concern for my safety was written all over his face.

He hesitated, rubbed his eyebrow, then clapped his hands down on my shoulders. "Please."

Had I already failed that badly in being a gothic queen? I couldn't let that continue. "I'll be fine. Here, take this and do me a favor." I had handed him a hundred-dollar bill. "I need a burner phone. Could you—" No. I stood straighter. "Grab me one from the nearest store and come back here to wait for me."

His face crinkled, but then he nodded deeply. "Yes, ma'am."

I blew out a breath and took the first step up to the club door. I had no idea what the hell I was getting into and no idea what I was doing either.

Then, from out of the shadows came the hulking doorman dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and blood red tie. His hands were folded in front of him. Like a funeral director. My funeral.

He gave me the up and down, then asked, "Can I help you?"

I swallowed and replied with "Good evening, Mr. Pierre," adding a smile. Was that wrong? Right? The man bored his gaze into mine, saying nothing. I thought I was a goner, but he gave me a big smile with a mouth full of gold. Yes, every single tooth was gold. What a sight. His hand reached for the numbered keypad, and after a loud click, the door slid open.

Music flowed out. I took a deep breath and stepped forward to the beat of "Sous Le Ciel De Paris." I remembered enough French, thank God, from the time I had studied architecture over the summer in France before graduating. This club seemed far from being under the sky of Paris, but the song was still soulful and intoxicating.

Foggy smoke filled the hall lined with leather-clad people kissing and groping each other. I squeezed my way through and found a small crowd at the end watching something. I moved past them, into the official opening, and the main room was huge with women dancing from the ceiling, aerial style, with long, colorful cloths. A bar was on the left wall next to a set of restrooms, while a dance floor took up the middle. A large stage was along the back wall, and on the right side were booths with sofas and chairs—the VIP area...

So many bodies grinded, twisted, and rubbed together everywhere. I made my way to the bar just left of the stage. I didn't make eye contact with anyone, just yelled to the bartender, "Bloody Grey Goose." How was that for confidence?

The bartender looked at me like I was mad. Shit. But truth be told, I was mad, in all the ways someone could interpret that. No more second-guessing myself, no more smiling. I came to the club for my sister, and I wasn't going to half-ass this when it could've played a part in her being murdered.

I leaned in across the bar and yanked the dog collar around the bartender's neck. "Grey Goose Vodka with a splash of tomato juice, not a Bloody Mary. You will serve it to me in a highball glass with no garnish, shaken like a Martini. Make sure it's chilled." I gave his ear a little nibble—a stunt from other girls in my college days—before I let go of his collar.

He lifted his head with a big smile, and started on my drink. I watched his every move, watching to make sure he didn't put a little extra something in my Goose, if you know what I mean. A girl couldn't be too careful in a place like that, right...?

After a last drop, he slid the drink my way and smiled again before licking his lips and bowing his head to me. I put a hundred on the edge of the bar and circled the air with my index finger as I walked over to a table in the corner, a nice and dark spot that shouldn't have drawn any attention. It was too late for that, though. I climbed onto the bar stool, which let me see the stage and most of the room better. Within a couple of minutes, a woman, no, a girl, maybe eighteen if that, walked up and said she liked how I had ordered my drinks. She'd never seen it done that way before, and she came to Club Vaudou all the time. She slowly slid onto the other bar stool, like she was waiting for me to stop her. I just asked for her name, not counting anything out from my hunt.

"They call me Gin Gin around here." She winked. "They like to sip on me, you see. Like a Sloe Gin Fizz, and I always leave you with a long hangover, baby!"

I lifted an eyebrow and did my best not to seem shocked by her forwardness. "Who are 'they'?"

She half smiled. "Anyone that piques my interest." She gave me eyes, letting me know I piqued her interest at the moment. "Come now. A getup like yours, with that attitude, should be out dancing, not sitting back here."

She tugged me onto the floor and shimmied up close, then twirled away, slipping up behind me and, well, you can guess... I wasn't really into that, so I whipped her around and took control... Never had I imagined actually dancing at the club tonight. But Gin was a big personality; still, what was the probability that she could've known Sara? Too low for me.

She giggled and backed up against my silver buckles, earning us a lot of attention from the guys in the club. Not a good thing, but I couldn't just run off, so I slapped Gin on the ass and walked calmly back to the table. Thankfully, Gin Gin stayed out on the floor, dancing alone. That didn't last long. Guy after guy tried to join her, but she had a coy way of letting them know she wasn't interested. I took mental notes; figured I'd need all the pointers I could get. Then, a group of men, the ones sitting nearby in the VIP section and being waited on hand and foot, pointed to Gin...

I sipped on a delivered Bloody as one man motioned for another gangster guy to go and get her. The guy was slim yet as intimidatingly ugly and serious as the visible gun he had tucked in his pants... He walked past all the other people on the dance floor and grabbed Gin by the arm. She tried to pull away, but he was way stronger than he appeared.

He shoved her down next to the greasy looking man with a lot of gold on his fingers, around his neck, and I wouldn't be surprised if his teeth were all gold too. Just like the other VIPs, he looked European, maybe. I was too far away to pick up on what they were saying or how they were saying it. Mr. Greasy man leader guy handed Gin a glass of something—my stomach tugged, as I wanted to help her get away, but I didn't think that would be a wise move.

I had to do something, though, especially since she kept looking over at me. Her expression wasn't a good one. But then a flash of Sara, hanging in the tree, popped in my head. The pool of her blood in the water of the Bayou... the fire... My whole body shook, my breathing got faster, my legs grew weak, and the flashes kept coming. The whole crime scene, Jack speaking, the bolt of lightning, and Sara's dead eyes.

At some point, I shot up, rushed to the nearest restroom, and shut myself in a stall; I placed my hands on each side and tried to control my breathing, but I ended up falling back on the toilet. I only opened my eyes as some rude piece of shit started banging on the stall door.

"Go away." They kept knocking. "I need a minute." They didn't stop.

With their latest bang, I flung the door open, shocking myself more than him—yes, a him, the VIP man with the gun! My mind cracked, thinking this was it, they had found me out. He lurched at me, and I kneed him in the balls, sending him doubling over. This guy could have been Sara's killer? An accomplice? Sent to kill me, too?

"You bitch."

I yanked off the steel receptacle for tampons and slammed it across the top of his head, and one more time to the side as he went down. I sprinted towards the exit, but then doubled back for his gun. It was heavier than I had thought, and it scared me, but I didn't need him to wake up and shoot me with it.

Putting the gun in the trash would've been too easy, too obvious, so I dropped it in a toilet tank. As for the wallet of Sara's possible killer, all he had was some cash, a lot of cash actually, receipts, and a passport—a Romanian passport with the name Andrei Hearn. OK, not what I had expected, but I needed to move quickly, so I slid the wallet back where I had found it and stroked the back of his head three times... telling him he better hope to God he hadn't played any part in hurting my sister. If he did, I'd be back to play with him, too. I then hit the door, stopping just enough to peek out first. The music was still loud as hell and the coast was clear, so out I popped. As I passed the bartender, I snatched a glass he was in the midst of sliding down to another clubgoer in leather. I shakily lifted the drink and gulped it down. None of the VIP men were rushing for the restroom... yet.

The bartender tentatively sidled up to me, making another drink. "Something the matter, chickie love?"

If anything, more adrenaline pumped through my veins. To hell with it. "Who are those greasy guys in VIP? Straight answers, please. And fast."

He wiped a glass thoroughly. "Bad news. Romanian mob or something like that. They control this place, don't own it, but control it."

I frowned and glanced at the greasy guys again. Gin was still with them, even grinding on one of their laps and laughing like everything was OK.

The bartender finished another drink and leaned towards me. "She'll be fine, you know? She's one of their pets. Now, you, on the other hand, I don't know. Gin Gin was testing you for them—by the way, you passed." I was taken aback by that, but of course I didn't know this world very well or how it worked. Which part had been the test exactly? He waggled his brows, having fun with not answering my question, but then he froze, a scared look paling his face.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood, and I slowly turned to stare straight into the eyes of Mr. Greasy himself. No bodyguards, just him.

# Chapter 5

Enigma

"Each person is an enigma.

You're a puzzle not only to yourself

but also to everyone else, and

the great mystery of our time

is how we penetrate this puzzle."

— Theodore Zeldin

My bartender friend whipped to the left. "Good luck, chickie love." He grimaced and went back to making drinks, leaving me alone, in a sense, with the greasy leader.

He stepped in close, like the creep he was, and told me I was quite interesting. Whatever the hell that meant. I toasted my stolen drink, then knocked back the rest, only to nearly choke as Greasy Leader guy pressed his nose against my neck and rubbed it up and down my skin. I jerked away, but he grabbed my wrist. "You wouldn't happen to know where my buddy went, now would you?"

Sweat trickled down my neck, and I couldn't decide if he knew the answer to that or not. If he did, he probably thought it was a ruse, me taking down his buddy. Not that he would've been wrong, so I had to act fast, right? Or maybe the exact opposite...? I licked my lips slowly, getting his attention while also reaching out with the hand he didn't have a grip on and gently touching his balls through his pants. A smile came alive on his face, of course... Until I cinched down hard and gave them a twist, watching the pain take over his face.

He tried to get away, but I tightened my hold and kept twisting. To anyone watching, I wonder if it had looked as if Greasy Leader guy and I were hugging and playing around with my head buried in the crook of his neck. This could've been the guy who had killed Sara, or sent his buddy to execute the job.

Hot rage coursed through me, overriding any anxiety. I grabbed his ear with my teeth, hard enough to pop his ear lobe, actually spilling some blood down his neck. He moaned in pain, or joy—who knows with this guy. Disgusted, I stepped back with his blood on my chin, hoping to God he didn't have anything I could catch. But, more than that, a strange feeling stirred in my stomach, only growing. What power, to handle these bastards like yesterday's garbage.

I planted a kiss on Greasy's forehead and hurried out of the club. I stopped just outside the entrance, at the railing, and looked down the alley at the lit lamps along the other warehouses just off Peters Street. It must've been about the time the thick mist from the Mississippi would start rolling around the streets. The air had a renewed freshness. A fog horn even sounded from a barge; it was loud and close.

My racing heart refused to find a steady beat that whole time, even when Jean-Paul jumped out of the car. I rushed down the steps and reached the sidewalk just when Mr. Greasy burst out of the club himself. He had a little limp as he held his crotch, but he flew down the steps. I no sooner turned my head when he shoved me against the red Maserati parked right in front of the club. His left arm pressed hard at my neck, while he held a knife in his right hand, high in the air, ready to strike.

He was spitting words, but with his thick accent, all I could make out was "Bitch, I will fu—" I didn't wait for him to finish. I thrust my knee into his boys, just like I'd done to his friend, and his eyes bugged out. Then, I swung my arms under his and thrust upward, sending both my hands into his throat. My nine years of self-defense sent his ass backwards on the concrete sidewalk.

I went for his knife hand without a second thought, grabbed his wrist, then drove the knife deep into his opposite shoulder. He screamed, sending chilly shivers up my spine as I stood over him, taking in what I had done. That feeling of power came over me again, and the tingling sensations rushing all over my body didn't stop.

Then, from my left side, a hand grabbed my arm and pushed me to the right. It was Jean-Paul. He was yelling something I couldn't hear past the blood pounding in my ears, and he wielded some type of revolver. It wasn't aimed at me, but at the doorman and the other VIPs pouring out of the club... It was about to get crazier out there!

"The club can't be involved in this," the doorman called out. "Take your business elsewhere."

Jean-Paul looked over and ordered me to "Come now." He walked us backwards before shuffling me into the backseat of his black sedan.

His gun stayed focused on the other men as he jumped in the front, then sped off into the night.

I sat back in my seat, more satisfied with my evening than I probably should've been. I closed my eyes, reflecting on what my hands, my knees, all of me, had done—yet, a flash of Sara filled my thoughts instead. This time, the flash was different; she was looking at me with a smile on her face. I tried to piece the thoughts together and figured it was either a sign or me losing what was left of my mind.

"Have you eaten anything, ma'am?" asked Jean-Paul, almost making me giggle.

"After an evening like tonight, you question that?"

"Yes, ma'am. We need a place to lay low for a while, and you're probably hungry after handling that man with great confidence." He smiled in the rearview.

I beamed back. "I guess I could use something to eat. Let's go somewhere local, somewhere with flair, food, and fun...?"

He laughed. "You've had enough fun for tonight. Let us just break some bread and enjoy what's left of tonight." Jean-Paul was still laughing as he shot through the mist that was spilling into the quiet streets from the Mississippi.

Jean-Paul came to a stop in front of a corner store named Verti Marte on Royal Street, near the middle of the French Quarter. It didn't look like much at all, with its weathered green half-glass doors that had a half-moon glass above them covered in black steel bars—typical old New Orleans. Next to the front doors was a window of equal size and color, where two chairs and a small table sat. There was nothing else to note. The place seemed very indescribable, very simple. Jean-Paul opened my car door and extended his hand with a "Madam."

"Why, thank you, kind sir," I replied in a playful tone as I stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around just out of habit. We were in the clear; I knew that, but I still had those little hairs standing up on the back of my neck. Not to mention the adrenaline was wearing off, so I was feeling a bit queasy...

Jean-Paul was at the deli door, holding it open while he scanned the street, too. I walked in, and every eye in the place turned towards me. I must have been a sight after all, dressed in that all-black leather outfit with the white straight hair from my sister's collection. Add my black lips, eyes, and nails as well as my powder white face—at least I assumed the makeup was still on—and yes, what a sight I was in the middle of that local deli.

Too much fun, as Jean-Paul had said. So much playtime with madness that I had almost forgotten I was dressed this way. Mary, my therapist, would have been proud of me getting out of my strict comfort zones. Well, I'm not sure she would've understood the knife in the guy's shoulder part, or the guy knocked out in the restroom part, but still.

My heart lurched just because, and the throbs were back, heating and tingling my whole body. The moments at the club had really happened, right?

"Nou telman grangou nou pral mouri!" Jean-Paul said to the young man behind the counter, ordering for us from what I could assume. He then turned to me and said, "This is my younger brother, Maximus. He will make us food like you never tasted before. Come, we could sit out back and enjoy the night."

I followed Jean-Paul to the outside area. He sat down next to me, pulled out a cigar, and motioned to me, asking if it was OK to light it. I nodded. The smell was a soft pleasant one that I didn't mind. We didn't say anything to one another for a while, just sat quietly and felt the night. Music—maybe jazz—played from a nearby club. Maximus popped out of the store, carrying a tray of all kinds of different food. He set the tray on the small table between us.

Jean-Paul began explaining what everything on the tray was, from the spicy fish dish to the diri ak pwa. As we began to enjoy ourselves, we noticed every few seconds, a screaming police car would race by. Jean-Paul would smile afterward, and shrug. I just smiled back and took another bite.

There was no doubt in my mind that he liked my sister, in a good way. I wanted to tell him who she was to me, but I still wasn't one hundred percent sure I should divulge that information yet. He could've been a bad guy or an undercover cop for all I knew. Maybe he had even brought Sara to that deli sometimes, breaking down her guard with all the delicious food. She would have loved these Haitian dishes. I, myself, hadn't realized how much I'd been starving after my little tangle with Mr. Greasy Romanian man, until I took my first bite of the rice and red beans. Oh, and there went an ambulance, heading in the direction we had come from Peters Street.

"Did you crank his nuts that hard that you're worried an ambulance all the way over here is rushing for him all the way over there?" Jean-Paul asked.

I frowned and swallowed. "I keep thinking about how I stabbed his shoulder. Maybe the knife hit his heart? Or a lung? You know, something important. Then again, someone like that doesn't have a heart, right?"

Jean-Paul chuckled. "You have spirit. That's good. You'll need it." He nodded and ate some more.

I sat back and took a sip of water, eyeing him and deciding to just let it out. "She was my sister—Sara. She was my sister."

He just stopped for a minute or two, before his hand twitched with his fork. "You used the word was... That can't be good. Did you two have a fight? My brother and I have it sometimes."

"I didn't mean it like that, Jean-Paul..."

He strained a smile. "The last night I drove her, she wasn't happy like normal. She wouldn't talk to me. We always talked. She just told me to take her to a place. Then, not another word."

"Was that place the Bayou?"

Jean-Paul looked up at the light hanging from the backdoor of the deli as the mist made a rainbow haze around its glass. He kept his gaze there for a few beats, probably debating on how much to tell me, if anything at all. "Yes. There was a man there waiting as we pulled in. That wasn't normal. No one has ever met us at one of her stops before."

I leaned forward, pressing against the table. "Have you ever seen him before, though? Anywhere?"

He shook his head, then pushed away his plate. "She walked off with him that night, down to a cabin near the water. I remember... I remember she stopped and waved to me, telling me to go. That was the last time I saw her. I never got another call from her number until you." His hand balled into a fist on the table. "I knew something was wrong that night, but I didn't know what to do or who to notify. She's mixed up in a lot of things. I didn't want to get her in trouble. I'm not a bad man who'd just leave her by herself. I never should've—"

"If I show you a picture, would you recognize the man?" I cut in, feeling his pain, not wanting to see him spiral like that. "I can see you're not a bad man. So, please, help me. If I showed you a picture...?"

Jean wiped his face and rubbed his right eyebrow, apparently a tick of his... "I would like to try," he said eventually, in a stronger voice.

I sat up straighter. "My name's Raven."

He smiled and nodded an official hello. "And here." He fished around and pulled out a burner phone.

Perfect. But I still couldn't access anything that would help me at the moment. "Do you have a phone with Internet?" Another nod. "Great, look up Andrei Hearn."

"I'm finding Andre and Andrew Hearn, but I don't recognize any of them."

"OK, search Jack Bode and Oliver Dupeux." I had to rule them out for my peace of mind.

Jean-Paul shook his head.

"Try Collin Strapmore, of Strapmore International Properties."

That was when Jean-Paul became visibly angry. He dropped his phone and breathed harshly into his clenched hands that were held up against his face.

I got up and asked his brother if he had anything that could ease Jean-Paul. Maximus looked worried, but he brought out two glasses of scotch, which we both took in one swallow... Alone with Jean-Paul, I told him that I needed him to hear me when I said I would take care of this. It wasn't his fault. Sara had been involved with this mess way before him. He had to trust me on that.

"Do you understand, Jean-Paul? I'll take care of this. Collin is hosting a gala tomorrow night—well, technically, later today. But I need to know you'll be there for me, if need be, OK? That means you can't go after Collin, too. We can't cross paths like that. Plus, the FBI and police might be there, and we don't know for sure if Collin is even the one who killed Sara..." What a head rush.

I had another glass of scotch as Jean-Paul kept rubbing at his eyebrow. By the time we hit the empty streets of the French Quarter, we didn't say much more to one another. It was usually pretty empty at that hour, except for the occasional late partygoers trying to find their way home. I asked him to park in the alley behind the apartment building, and he walked me through the alley to the back steps. I didn't want to chance Jack or his crew being out front waiting. Little did I know Jack wasn't who I needed to worry about.

# Chapter 6

Mr. Perfect and The Hunt

"Hunting forces a person to endure, to

master themselves, even to truly get to

know the wild environment."

— Donald Trump, Jr.

Collin Strapmore, the second I laid eyes on that man, I knew—my whole body knew—he was the man, the murderer, the fuckweasel who took my sister's life. But I had no proof to get him imprisoned, or just to kill him myself... Something else was that as I watched him, lots of different women, young, old, white, Hispanic, blonde, redheaded, just a lot of women, flocked towards him. I stayed in the back and witnessed all of that, making no contact. That was my plan anyway, but we all know how well those work out, right?

The same thing kept repeating in my head throughout that night as the soft music played: Collin, I'm coming for you. I'm coming for you. That was my own little promise for his bleak future. And it made me sick to see so many women throw themselves at him all night. What made him so special? Yes, he was very good-looking and, yes, very rich. He was also tall with dark hair, a great build, wearing that black suit like it was cut just for him; he was a feast for the eyes and the hands that would paw at him, but still.

I listened to him while he was on stage talking. That's right, talking all those people out of their money for the very human beings they paid no attention to out in their very own streets—but they could give a few bucks that night to clear their conscience... Collin had that gift, to empty pockets for sure, and I was convinced he used that same gift to get women to drop their panties as well. Then, why kill them? What was it that made Mr. Perfect do such a thing? He could get or have anything, or anyone, he wanted, so why take things there? I understood why I was going to hurt him, if not make him pay with his own life, but why did someone like him kill?

After about four glasses of free champagne, I made my way through the crowd of well-dressed rich people, again a feast for the eyes, dressed to the nines. They were all laughing and sipping champagne while music played in the background. They had servers pushing carts of art pieces from local painters, for everyone to bid on. I found myself just behind him then, and I lightly brushed my body against his as I passed. A sick feeling roiled in my stomach. That feeling soon became pain, then anger. But I could handle this. I would handle this, just like I had done with the VIP men the night before. Collin was a cold-blooded killer who needed someone to play with him just as hard, if not harder. As I made my way to move past him again, someone grabbed my arm; I whipped around to see it was Neal, one of my partners. Shit, right? I had imagined running into Jack, or Oliver, but not anyone from work.

He half smiled, half frowned. "Rae? Damn, girl, what are you doing here? Norman told us you were in Europe, after your...tragedy...?"

I looked right into his eyes and told him this was an important charity for me. I had to come and give to the lost women of our city. After all, we had helped to build this city, but I couldn't recall anyone ever thinking of the women when it had come time to planning and constructing those new shiny buildings. To do a project for the women on one of the outermost streets had always been a dream of mine.

"Think about it," I said. "Renaming one of them Sanctuary Street? With houses, shops, and multilevel buildings for the women and girls to get a fresh start—wouldn't that be something? Something real? All inspired by the very people we're toasting here tonight, of course. I mean, look up there, Neal. Can you see yourself on that stage giving Sanctuary Street to the city? What a project to be proud of while we still have air in our lungs."

I watched his face the whole time. I was spinning this whole story out of total crap; well, not entirely, since I did have that vision back in college, the innocent days of Raven Rousseau. And now I had Neal hook, line, and sinker. I guess I was pretty good at fooling people, too. Neal even admitted to feeling like shit for not thinking about the lost women, too. Collin had better watch out for the new player in the NO—I was coming for him.

To my surprise, just as I was squeezing Neal's arm and telling him how I had an overseas flight to catch after the gala, and how I would be in touch with him soon, and how he should keep thinking about the project I had proposed... up walked Neal's wife Toni, with Collin himself. To say I immediately became uncomfortable would have been an understatement. I didn't want that; it was too soon. I hadn't thought about how I would react being so close to him, involuntarily, knowing what I knew.

Toni grabbed my arm and pulled me closer. "Collin, this is one of my husband's partners at the firm. Raven Rousseau."

He bowed and reached for my hand. "Very nice to meet such a beautiful woman and a partner in an all-male firm. Very nice."

I forced a smile and began to say thank you when he leaned forward and caressed my hand before kissing the back of it. Lightning shocked my entire body. Sara's dead face popped in my mind, crystal clear. And all the women at that gala, their eyes on me, flashed like dead, cold faces, too. All by the hands of this bastard.

Neal spoke up, breaking the tension ripping me apart. He began telling Collin about me, and Collin never broke eye contact. I had his attention; I had a killer's attention. He even had that look in his eyes—that empty, soulless look some people seemed to have, like everything around them was beneath them...

"Rousseau, is it? A wise man with that name once said, 'Freedom is the power to choose your chains.' Would you all agree?" He turned the question to everyone, yet only gave me a once over. Two minutes later, he had them all laughing.

I finally pulled away when Toni distracted him by asking to dance. I slipped behind a woman in a red satin dress and walked to the door as fast as I could without running. I didn't want to draw any attention, but running was what I yearned to do—run, and never stop.

I stepped outside the double doors and threw up right there on the red carpet stretching across the steps. I had tried to make it to the bushes along the side, but I couldn't hold it in. He just made me that sick to my stomach.

A valet ran over, yelling, "Ma'am, ma'am. Are you OK?"

No such thing as a stupid question, right?

"Let me help you to a cab."

I waved him away and took off down the street by myself, walking into the night, consumed with the idea that Collin had me in his radar now. The next move had to be mine. What a head trip that was... And Neal and Toni knew him...? Thankfully, my firm partner had seemed to believe me about catching a flight after the gala, so that wouldn't be something I needed to worry about. Going forward, I would have to be more careful.

Also, facing that horrible disgusting killer was something I was going to have to work on. I needed to be able to be close to him, or avenging Sara would never work. I'd just end up like her! To think about walking next to him, or holding hands, or his face being near mine, or having to kiss him made my skin crawl.

He murdered my sister. He also had the audacity to bring up fucking chains. Not that he was meaning to mock me. He didn't know my connection to Sara, right? Maybe he didn't even know anything about her besides their possibly shared kinks. When Sara had been alive, she must've been just one of his toys, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were a lot of other women he had done the same to.

The dead faces flashed in my mind again.

I had to be different, for my sister's sake. I couldn't be his or anybody's toy. Plus, getting close to Collin didn't automatically mean a chance of dying. He had dated and entertained the company of women without killing them before. Jean-Paul had learned so through the Gazettes Society section. He had looked up all the women Collin had been linked with, and they were alive and kicking. Of course, that was only women he'd been with publicly. I didn't want to be seen with him by the world, but I did want to stay alive, obviously. So, more than ever, the focused, hyper-alert aspect of myself had to be played up, not down, which was nice for a change. Even if my dear therapist Mary would've probably said I was being delusional. Ha.

I continued my walk downtown towards the business district of the Quarter as morning broke. I never went home that night, not sure why. I just knew where I was and where I was heading for once. My stomach didn't even boil over with acid as I stopped at the building of my new friend, Collin—yes, his workplace. I stood outside the building with my hands pressed against the glass doors, feeling the urge to go find his office and do a little Nancy Drew up his ass. Meanwhile, Mr. Real Estate guy, the rich showman of the gala, must've been coming down from the high of raising thousands of dollars for that charity. A great one supposedly for the lost women of New Orleans. He'd be lucky if all I did was blackmail him into building Sanctuary Street before I wrung my hands around his neck.

He had everything. Why did he do such sick things? I'd seen his handiwork with my own two eyes, the way he had laid Sara out on that plank, but I still didn't understand why. He already had the world's attention...

Well, no matter. Now someone was coming after him.

That was a bit scary when I really thought about it, but I had a mission of vengeance for my sister—no matter what happened on the other side of this.

Naturally, with prison on the brain, Jack came up. He was still hunting Collin, too. The notion of just giving the bastard over to Jack and being done with it, so I could go back to my life as an architect and put this all behind me, crossed my mind once or twice. Yet, what kept me moving forward in that underworld playground of nastiness, killing, hurting, power, and sexual release, with people like Collin and the greasy VIP men, was simple. Sara. My old world with everything I had known died with her.

When I finally got back to the apartment building, I didn't notice the man across the street watching me from behind a tree. I just went in and looked around. Nothing seemed out of place, so I went straight to Sara's dressing room and transformed into the Gothic Queen, same wig, different outfit, just as dark, mysterious, and confident. I figured I could move around town, maybe hit the gallery and hunt for more answers that way, since I still couldn't fathom sleeping. I even packed a few of Sara's fun things to take along that time...

I was about to close the dining wax room entrance with the bookcase when a shadow crossed my face. My heart leaped into my throat, and I whipped around to catch a man standing in the foyer—I grabbed a brass candlestick and held it out, yelling, "Who are you?"

The man stepped into the dim light spilling in from the window of the open galley kitchen. "No worries here, miss. I'm a U.S. Marshal looking for Sara. Do you know her?" He held his badge up in front of him.

I lowered the stick, only a bit. "I'm a friend of hers... She's letting me crash here for a couple of days."

He looked puzzled and asked when was the last time I'd seen her. I told him the truth, about a week and a half ago—why? And why was a Marshal looking for her? He just stared at me and stepped over to the settee to actually sit down at a time like that. As I stepped closer, he said, "Are you the sister she was obsessed with finding?"

It was my turn to just stop and stare at him. Not knowing which way to go with that, I walked over to the settee and sat, too, not saying anything.

"Sara told me she had a sister she never knew about and had to find." He ran his fingers through his hair, shaking his head like a little lost puppy. "She would ask me to look into things for her from time to time, but it never went anywhere. Damn Romanians. At least Sara found who she was looking for."

"So what if I'm her sister or not? Why are you in her apartment? You can't just waltz in here." I wanted to bring up his mention of Romanians, too, but I hesitated.

"First, this isn't her apartment. This is a safe house. Your sister's a storyteller, but the fact is she's under protective custody as a material witness. You 'crashing' here could get me into a headache I never want to be in, so stay off the radar and out of sight. Got that? No funny business."

I stared at him for a moment. "Bullshit. This is no safe house"—maybe a playhouse—"for all I know, you're just a toy she plays with. Besides, if she were under protective custody, she'd be here! You need to do better than that if we're going to continue this cat-and-mouse game, or do you need me to strap you to the table in there? Would that get you talking, Mr. Marshal?"

His eyebrows couldn't go any higher. My stomach flipped, and I felt like making a run for the door, but at the same time, I was curious as to why the Marshal was really in my sister's life. Protection? Or was he truly one of those guys who would play with her in the other rooms?

His phone rang, and he got up to answer it as he walked into the kitchen. "Whoa, hey, slow down. Yes, Sara Rossinoff. I've been trying to—what? The FBI?"

I shot out the front door without a second thought, dashed down the stairs, and ran to the alley that led to the street behind the apartment. I kept running in short, quick strides, not even noticing I was doing so in Sara's red six-inch heels. Thank God I didn't go with the eight-inch, right? Anyway, I spotted a cab sitting at a corner. I rushed up to it and jumped in, startling the driver. "Sorry! Go! Please!"

He looked back to ask where, when I caught sight of the Marshal charging down the block.

"Drive!" I screamed. The driver took off, and I trembled in the backseat. Where was I supposed to go now? I had nowhere else. The FBI and local police were watching and making themselves at home in my house, and the Marshal was at Sara's. Hotels needed credit cards and IDs, and one swipe would alert Jack and the others that I was still in the country—unless that was exactly what the Marshal was doing right at that moment... Shit, I truly was in a bit of a pickle.

The Marshal had said he would get in serious trouble if his people found out about me staying at Sara's place. Would that secret hold up, or would he tell Jack about me and my gothic queen getup anyway? I could worry about that till my nipples fell off, but the truth was I had no control over it, point blank. What I did have control over was where I would go next. The only thing I could come up with was home.

I could sneak in for a shower, fresh clothes, and more money. OK, and what then, Ms. Super Wannabe Killer? I remember asking myself that, as the whole becoming a killer shit was very taxing—no wonder most killers were crazy to begin with.

Like Collin...

The Marshal and Jack could've been closing in on me, but I still needed more time to follow that bastard and see how he operated; I needed to put myself in his path and see just how a murderer lived life on a daily basis. It would be like nothing I'd ever experienced before, almost like a design for a completely new building. Same principle, right? You start with the foundation and work up.

Before I knew it, the cab had me at the street one over from mine. I didn't remember telling him where to go, which was a testament of how much I needed to rest my head and sleep. I slipped out and made my way to the corner across from my house. There was a car out front watching it. I backtracked to the street behind my house and made my way through Ms. Carolina's yard again. I waited to see if anyone was lurking around, nothing, so I made my way to the side door, just remembering to turn off the alarm, but it wasn't even on.

I looked around quietly to make sure no one was inside, waiting; it looked clear, so in I went. I stood in the kitchen, gripping the edge of the countertop, completely and utterly amazed at what I had gotten myself into. Running from the FBI, the police, the U.S. Marshals, and the damn Romanian Mob, all in a week's time. Being back home, I had to give it to myself—whenever I jumped into a project, I always did it in a big way... I headed upstairs to the bathroom in the back part of my house to take a shower with the lights off, to not alert the men out front. I could only hope they didn't take turns coming in and checking.

I finished my shower, feeling clean and a little bit normal, when the front door opened and I heard the noise from a walkie-talkie. I stopped to listen. The lid to the downstairs toilet hit the back tank. I just stood motionless in the hallway, wrapped in a towel, holding a bundle of clothes and a wig. The toilet seat slapped down, and the sink turned on. Well, good. Whoever it was washed their hands. Then, footsteps walked around down there.

I started to panic, but then the squeak of the front door came. I made my way to the front bedroom and peeked out the window to see a man standing in my front yard, lighting up a cigarette, then continuing to the car. I went to my bedroom, put on some clothes, and filled a backpack with more. I then returned to the spare room and curled up on the floor next to the bed and window. It felt safer, and I was out like a light.

Morning came, and the car out front had changed with new guys. I made my way down the back steps and was about to head out the side door when, for some reason, I went into the living room, where I had last seen Jack. Just as a part of me had feared, a speck of white paper poked out from behind the cushion. I pulled on it, and yes, it was the gala flyer. Had Jack seen it at all? Shit and rice krispies, what now...?

# Chapter 7

Mouse Trap

"The clever cat eats cheese and

breathes down rat holes

with baited breath."

— W.C. Fields

As the team made their way down to the marina in Iberia Parish, Domingo's laptop sounded and everyone whipped around.

"What do you have?" Jack pressed.

"Nothing. I have nothing... The guys at the lab are going to go over everything again, but there's nothing, no prints, no other physical evidence, other than the sweat DNA. Damn." Domingo sighed.

Jack sat quiet for about a second. "Listen here, we operate as though we've got something on this guy. I don't want to hear any sighs or see anyone taking any shortcuts. I need eyes on everything, a total three-sixty of this place. EJ, get us all the history and records you can find on the marina."

"This isn't just a marina," EJ said, "it's the fucking Port of Iberia. They call it the Gulf Coast Cajun Connection. The Port has total access to both interstate travel as well as open water travel. It builds and supplies offshore oil rigs and highway construction materials—and container shipping, of course. But that's just a start! They have over a hundred companies and over five thousand employees. They do have a small area for personal boats and small ships, but Jack, they have twenty-four seven access for both highway travel and open water. They must be getting local help."

Lizzy switched lanes. "You know what that means."

EJ nodded. "We can't trust anybody..."

"Guys," Domingo cut in. "I've pulled up a satellite map of the Port and the area around it. Not pretty. There's only one feeder in and out of that place—by water. But the Port itself is spread out with four or five roads in or out. I see the small personal marina off South Lewis Street. Is that where we're looking for this guy?"

"Enough." Jack jabbed a finger to the left. "Lizzy, pull into that diner. We need some food so we can talk this out. The area is too big to just wander in and do our shit. We're running too blind right now, and I don't like it."

Lizzy whipped into the parking lot and went in to find a table while the rest of the team filed in behind her. It was the typical roadside diner with the long bar area overlooking the flat grill, and booths along the front. The team squeezed into the large round booth at the end near the restroom and kitchen doors. That was on purpose, too; their chosen spot had the best vantage point in the place. The team wasn't going to take any chances. They might not have had a solid plan, but they knew what they were after was dangerous.

The young waitress popped over to the table and filled them with that Deep South twang. "Hi, there. What can I get you folks?"

The whole team shouted.

"Coffee!"

"Please!"

"We need coffee, ma'am."

She just laughed, went behind the counter, and grabbed the fresh pot. After she set it in the middle of the table, she promised, "I'll be back in a minute to get your orders."

The team hit that pot like a raid on a drug house... They all set up their laptops, and Domingo loaded the satellite shot on the screen. They were all synced with his laptop for that, and they started going over the possibilities.

Lizzy handed out files to everyone, which held every detail they had up to that point, but not very much at all. Domingo did a dual screen video with the lab in Baton Rouge. It was 'all hands on deck' for this operation, in case they could add anything.

Their boys at the lab jumped right in. "We found some dirt on the floor of the cabin that should not have been there. It's a type of sand used to do commercial sandblasting. We've narrowed it to the coast, somewhere that has offshore drilling materials. So, the Port might truly be the hot spot because we also picked up matter only found on the sea floor just off the coast of Louisiana.

"Really, it's just like my mother always said, 'Keep flipping those stones in the creek and you'll find a peck of crawfish...' So, we kept digging and found a speck or two of blood on several pieces of that sand. We have typed at least three blood types so far—none matches your victim, though. Sorry."

Jack looked at Lizzy. "Do you think we can get a warrant with that?"

Lizzy shook her head. "Only for the sandblasting shops out there. Nothing else."

"What about the oil rig goop?" Jack shot back. "That should cover it and get us on the property so we can do the rest? The way we do our thing, you know."

"I know better than that, and so do you. Anything we found would be thrown out, and we would have nothing. We need something solid to keep our asses out of trouble this time. This is too big. Guys, you know the second our vehicles hit the dirt out there, word will fly across the Port. Do we have anybody in there we can trust or that has been checked out so we can use?"

The team scrolled through any contacts in the area as the clatter of plates and glasses came from the kitchen. The waitress shook her head and walked over to take their orders, no pad needed. She strolled back to the cook, calling out the first order with the same Southern drawl, "Two eggs, over easy, and burnt toast on the side."

"Right," EJ started. "So, there's a guy in the Port Authority." She showed the whole team her phone, lingering on Jack. "He used to be on the NOPD. Can you call Oliver and ask?"

Jack jumped up and headed for the door while calling Oliver.

"Hey, man, we need information on anyone you may know out in Iberia Parish. The Port to be exact. Ollie, we need a guy on the inside to trust, or something we can use to control them. I don't care which at this point. We just need an open ticket into the Port."

Oliver was quiet for a moment, thinking. "My aunt has a cousin out there, but I don't know too much about him. I'm pulling his jacket now—yeah, a lieutenant on the job down there. But, Jack, I don't hear good things about the guys out there if you know what I mean. Internal Affairs has a special task force that watches the Port. Anyway, I got his jacket, but one of his files is sealed... It'll take me at least an hour with IA to get it unsealed for you. Maybe if I use your name as a peace offering, it could help move things along...?"

Jack told Ollie to do whatever he needed. "Stop the bullshit. You could get me that open ticket from IA? Fine, then call Dance." He twisted and turned in the same spot he was standing, matching her name. "She and I aren't on the best terms, by the way."

Oliver just laughed. "You not showing up for your engagement dinner was a hard one to swallow, don't you think? And let's not forget she lobbed a whole entire bottle of champagne at your head the next morning when you told her you couldn't marry her. But, hey, maybe she's forgotten all that..."

Jack dropped his head, uncomfortable at the mere suggestion. "On second thought, isn't there another states attorney or anyone else we can try?"

"Brother, you've burned just about everyone down here. That's why you moved, remember?"

"I—"

Lizzy flew out the door and grabbed Jack's arm. "Come, listen. Domingo has something."

"Hold that thought, Ollie." He followed Lizzy back to the booth.

Domingo was sitting at his computer with a piece of half-eaten toast hanging out of his mouth, managing to talk past it. "I did a search on any type of unsolved ritual killings between here and New Orleans, using what we have so far. Then, I got to thinking this could really be an interstate case, so I opened it to a nation-wide search and found a buttload of unsolved cases that fit our victimology—and, guys, they date back to the late eighties."

Jack cocked his head back. "The fucking eighties? How the hell would we explain that? OK, that'd be a hell of a thing to explain, but first we need to filter some out due to geographical habits—EJ, brief us on the most recent cases in ten. I'm talking where the crimes were discovered, what the bodies looked like at the scene. Let's start there so we can get to work on a grid and a big fucking map. Then, we can work it back to the eighties. Better hope we don't need a bigger victim board to put all the photos on, guys. This is crazy."

"Let's consider the unsub started young," Lizzy added, "so take more than one look at those murders. They will be a little on the crude side, but keep the ones that could possibly fit a pattern to the recent kill at the Bayou. Keep in mind that whenever and wherever he started, he had to evolve into the patient, organized sacrificial killer he is today."

"If this guy has been killing and–or involved in killings for this long," EJ said, "and no one has put this together, our chances might be better spent busting some shit up at the Port—grabbing up a couple of thugs and making them talk..."

Jack smirked and sat up straighter. "I agree, but for now, we'll just keep working the evidence, the DNA, the sand, the ocean muck—Lizzy will work on the victimology and tell us a story with his ritual and fetish for displays." He then grabbed his phone and reluctantly called her, the woman he had almost married.

It went to voicemail, so he called twice more. Nothing. He dropped his head back with a deep sigh, earning some looks from his team... but when his phone went off with her name, Jack shot up away from the booth and swallowed hard. "Hey, Dance, how are you?"

"Jack, my long-lost mistake. Why are you blowing up my phone after all this time? We both know you wouldn't be calling me unless you needed something. You always need something, and don't you dare try to lie. I already talked to Ollie—honestly, Jack, you're so full of it. You thought I'd stand in your way of an investigation, especially this one, just because you're a dick?" She scoffed. "I signed the warrant twenty minutes ago, but thank you for calling yourself. That's big... and Jack, damn you, but I hope you stay safe and find the peace and happiness you need someday. Now, get off my phone." Click.

Jack could only walk back inside. The team were all standing at the ready and Lizzy was holding a white piece of paper as Jack reached the booth. Lizzy handed Jack the bill, the warrant, and her phone. She looked him in the eyes and said, "It's Oliver." The team walked to the door and left Jack standing there with Lizzy's phone.

"Hey, you OK?" the cop asked.

"Yeah, I'm good, I think—you could have let me know she signed off on the warrant, brother..."

"I was busy running the paperwork through for you, so shake it off and go get something we can work with. I called Bobby with the FBI Critical Response Team, the local Swat, and the local back-up. They're meeting you just off Interstate 83 where it crosses Weeks Island Road. There's a big open lot on your right. You won't miss them."

"Can we trust these guys?" Jack asked.

"My gut tells me they have issues, but no one has been told what the operation is, not even Bobby who we know we can trust. They all have instructions to just meet your team there for further instructions."

"Thanks. I'll have Domingo cover the radio chatter just in case." Jack walked out of the diner, straight for Domingo. "The local Swat, our CRT, and local PD are waiting for us near the site where Interstate 83 meets Weeks Island—I'm pulling all phones when we get there and need you to track all chatter on all radio stations, OK? I mean across the board, Dom. Use your gizmos and get me something to go on..."

Lizzy smiled. "Making friends so soon, Jack? What are you going to tell these guys?"

Jack had that look on his face, the look that gets him and the team into trouble most of the time. But he knew he couldn't back down. Shit was happening at the Port, and they couldn't risk losing that guy—John Gardner—or any information he might have.

Their black SUV rolled into the lot and took the front position. The team jumped out, went to the rear of the vehicle, and suited up before talking to anyone. The two leaders from the Critical Response Team and the local Swat walked over and introduced themselves, Bobby and Lieutenant Colter, respectively.

Bobby jumped into asking what the operation was.

"High priority," Jack said. "I need all your people, and the local officers as well, in one group for the brief. We need to be on the same page, and we'll answer all your questions also. Whatever it takes to get this underway, gentlemen." They all headed towards the group with Jack and his team fanning out to both sides.

"Everyone, I'm Jack Bode with the FBI and this is my team. Sorry for the short notice and mystery. This op is of high priority and needs to be handled as such. There will be no—I repeat no—outside communication. We'll need all your cell phones. No exceptions. This will be a radio-only operation. We're hitting the Port hard, and I need local to block off all roads in or out. We have the Coast Guard in position in the river now. They'll handle all water and air activity. My team is now handing out a picture of who we're looking for, but keep your eyes open for anything."

Jack and his team watched and read everyone's face to catch anyone who might have a problem with the order, while the Swat and CRT team leaders gathered the phones.

The leaders glanced at Jack, who nodded towards his computer whiz. After getting all the phones, Domingo took them to the SUV. Jack looked at Lizzy, and she nodded, sharing the same thought.

"Gentlemen." She stepped over to the team leaders and held out both palms. "No exceptions. This is too important."

Bobby handed his phone over with no problem, but Swat leader Lieutenant Colter became upset, explaining he had to stay in touch with his boss, and that his command had never been questioned.

Lizzy narrowed her eyes and extended her hand closer to him. "Thank you for your contribution to this op."

He didn't budge. "I understand time is of the essence, but we have crucial operations in the works ourselves."

Jack and the rest of the team walked over and asked what the issue was. If anything, the lieutenant could use his radio; headquarters would be monitoring the chatter.

Jack gave him a Jack-Bode smile. "Lieutenant, you will be with me for the operation. Swat will be with EJ, and CRT will be with Lizzy. Bobby and two local officers will take Port Authority and shut down all communications in and out. I do suggest you get their phones also, Bobby...

"This man we're looking for is wanted in connection with a murder in Ascension Parish. He has two IDs—one is Romanian and connected to a man who has been deported once already. The other is American, a John Gardner from New Orleans."

Mumbling filled the crowd and stopped Jack cold.

"You got something on him? Speak up now, please," he ordered.

The local officers huddled closer, talking. Jack walked over, with Domingo right behind him, and busted into that huddle.

"What do you know? Lay it out for us, and do it fast. Now is not the time to waste."

They all looked at each other and began telling Jack that John Gardner was the owner of one of the offshore oil rig construction companies. Everyone knew him around there. Jack demanded to know why Port Authorities or Immigration wouldn't have said anything. If that were the case, Gardner should have popped up on both their lists.

No one had any idea why, explaining that they never really got any calls from the Port. It seemed clean, and it was handled from within. Except for a call about a year ago...

"You mean about that body floating near Marsh Island and the three-year-old crying in a row boat?" one said.

"Yeah, that," voiced another.

"But it wasn't near the Port," said a third.

Jack shared a look with Domingo; the computer whiz was already hitting the keys on his laptop.

"Female, thirteen years old, European—did I say thirteen?" Domingo furrowed his brow. "Damn. I'm sending Lizzy the file now."

Jack thanked the local officers and strode over to Lizzy, asking if there were any photos of the body. Lizzy pulled up the images and showed him.

"What are you looking for exactly?" she asked.

"Get these photos to Baton Rouge, fast. Over and above that, have them look specifically for body marks of any kind, cuts, burns, strap marks, ligature marks. And they better get back to us ASAP!"

Lizzy ran back to the truck and finished up with the file. Jack went to Domingo, who pointed the screen at the agent before he placed his finger on a name. Said name belonged to the investigator who had handled the case a year ago. Lieutenant Luke Colter. Jack looked up and didn't see him in the group.

"Where's the lieutenant?" His shout caught the attention of the nearby officers.

"He walked over to the building to piss..." one answered.

Jack took off running for the building with Domingo and EJ on his tail. As they were about to open the door, a screaming black unmarked car came flying into the lot with lights flashing.

It was Oliver. He kicked the car door open. "Colter—"

"Is the leak," Jack finished for him. "Fuck."

They all pulled their weapons and charged the building, followed by every officer on site. They had it surrounded within a couple of seconds while Jack, Oliver, and EJ burst inside and had their weapons pointed at the lieutenant standing behind the store counter, holding a damn phone in his hand.

Oliver rushed him and pinned him to the desk. "IA has been looking at this guy for a number of things, including being involved with the Romanian Mob—if not being one of its leaders. Isn't that right, Lieutenant Luke Colter, or should I say Luca Colter?"

EJ grabbed the phone and tossed it to Domingo. "Open that bitch up."

Jack bored his eyes into Colter's. "You want us to do this the hard way, or just come clean? Either way, my guy's going to get all the numbers on your operation."

The lieutenant smiled, then curled his lip. "Fuck you, Jack Bode."

# COMING MAY 2020

VOLUME 3

The Switch Pops

A date with a killer.

Has Raven found the murderous bastard

who left her sister lying dead on a plank in the Bayou,

or has she just gone over the edge?

If she's right, now she has to date him...?

The streets of New Orleans be getting its crazy on.

Find out what happens next with Raven

in the third installment of

The Vengeance Chronicles

Have a question or just

something to tell me?

You're more than welcome

to reach out

Anthony Aaron Richards

Message and subscribe –

 aarichardswrites.com

Follow me on Twitter –

@writeit1990

Follow me on Instagram –

tony.laforgia.7

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anthony Aaron Richards (Aarichardswrites.com) was born Anthony La Forgia. He grew up a very adventurous young boy and that followed him into his adult years. Anthony was and still is a pusher of positive energy to everyone he meets. He has been a business owner in corporate management with a masters in psychology as well as a lifelong learner. January 28, 1990, had been when Anthony Aaron Richards, the writer, was finally born—the stories had just taken over and started to hit paper. He wrote a children's story and followed that with a couple of sorts during a time with his boys that exploded with fun imagination and activities. Real output for his writing came about in 1999 with Example of Power, his first thriller—on September 11, he put it in the drawer. It wasn't until the next year that The Vengeance Chronicles came into the works. Sidebar, the chronicles are about helping women in terrible situations. Anthony's history in that area was what had led him to help fight abuse in his own way. Through his stories, of course. He had witnessed abuse at a very young age, and that was forever imprinted on his psyche. In that, Anthony has spent a lifetime counseling and aiding women to get out of unwanted situations, fight back, and rebuild their lives. So, Raven came along to further fill those shoes and take on the battle with the seven-book series... The entire first book has a planned release later in 2020.

Follow him on Twitter @writeit1990 and Instagram tony.laforgia.7.

# AUTHOR INTERVIEW

By: Susanne Rich

Where do you live and how does it influence your writing?

Florida. For me, it's not so much the place I live—it's more the places I write about. I have to visit all the places in my stories. I need to feel, taste, see, touch, and understand their vibe in order to put it on paper. I did escape Florida once and make my way to North Carolina for fourteen years, which was where my writing had been born, January 28, 1990, at 7:04 am. I'm back in Florida, and I do like the pace of the little fishing town I live in. I'm calm where there is water and sunsets.

When did you first become passionate about writing? What attracted you to it?

I think it's best to start from the beginning. My grandmother managed a local bookstore and office supply store in Sarasota. I was lucky enough to spend weekdays after school there, and she would have one of the employees read to me. Before long, I was picking the books and learning how to read at a very young age. As you can imagine, I turned into a great storyteller, making up all kinds of adventurous tales, but it wasn't until that morning in 1990 that stories hit paper. I was lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, counting the little holes in the tiles—forty-two, by the way—and my mind traveled through one of those holes and into the attic, where a city was born with outdoor creatures and a squirrel from the city who hopped on a truck delivering nuts to the next town. I began with children's stories like that, then moved into thrillers. But I know the real question is when did I become passionate. My answer is, since I could turn a page.

What inspires you to write?

What doesn't? The world today is so on all the time, but when you can make a person smile at the words on a page... Now, that's something. Writing characters that help others in some way, helping out the underdog, all of that seems to be my thing.

How do you market your books?

I start with little story notes and clues on Instagram and Facebook, and I've published on Amazon. I have learned a lot since then and will follow a more active plan next time around. I would also like to find an agent who truly supports the possibilities of my work.

Do you support yourself through writing financially, or do you have a day job? If so, what is it?

Not really when it comes to writing, but some day. I'm hoping for an agent and some sort of deal for the series soon. As for my day job, I'm a retired therapist turned national insurance agent. Sounds sexy, right?

How many hours a day do you spend writing and what helps you get into the writing mood?

Well, for me, it's a day-long journey, meaning a couple of hours before work and a couple during work. Then, I wander in and out in the evening. I guess the bottom-line is always. That's how I have my life set up. For the mood question, I look at the world every day with the possibility of an idea popping up.

What's the best moment you've had with your writing career so far?

Sitting in Savannah, Georgia, with my wife, having dinner as Book 1 hit Amazon; a big part of the book is in and around that area. Another great moment was the day I ran into a fan of the book. I was over the moon as we shook hands and she began telling me about my character. I could tell she got her (Raven).

How do you respond to writer's block?

I don't want to come off as some super writer who doesn't believe in writer's block, but ever since I started this wonderful journey, it's something I have never had to worry about. In my head, it really has no place.

What are you working on next?

Well, my current project is seven books long with two standalones related to the series, and it may be followed by Raven going to Europe. OK, of course, she is going to Europe... Aside from the chronicles, I have a piece about a very famous American author that I throw a twist of fate in from time to time.

Where would you like to see yourself in three years' time?

With an agent, writing full-time, and making readers smile with my books. That's a simple recipe, right...?

You could find the interview and more at  https://awritersbusiness.com/author-interviews/2020/2/2/author-interview-series-anthony-aaron-richardsnbsp.
