She retreated, he pursued-physically, verbally, psychologically. "Your sister was found with a page from one of his books in her hand."
"A plant," she said, putting a wing chair between them. "Only a fool would incriminate himself that way."
Danjermond ignored her supposition and pressed on. "He had a wife, you know-"
With one sharp slash of her hand, Laurel tried to end the discussion. "That's it," she snapped, pushing past him and striding toward the door. She let him see the anger, but not the hurt. She didn't want to think of his knowing about Jack's tragedy. It was a violation, somehow. It was playing out of bounds. He fought slick and dirty. She would remember that if she ever had to face him in a courtroom. "I've had all I can stand for one day. This conversation is over. You know your way out."
She started out of the room, but his voice pulled on her like the strings of a puppet master as she neared the door. "Kenner wants to talk to him, but he didn't seem to be anywhere around today," he said softly. "I wonder why that is."
There could have been a hundred reasons for Jack's absence, Laurel thought as she stood with one hand gripping the door frame. He had certainly been around this morning-long enough to break her heart.
"Not everyone is what they seem, Laurel," Danjermond murmured. "You should know that. You should think about that."
"I do know," she said, staring straight ahead as his gaze bore into her back. "I also know that I lost my only sister today. I'd like to mourn in private, thank you."
She walked out on him and down the hall, but she had the feeling that his eyes followed her all the way upstairs.
Sleep came in fits and starts. The dreams were dark and relentless. Faces floated through her mind-Savannah's, Jack's, Jimmy Lee Baldwin's, and Leonce Comeau's. Danjermond's voice and visions of jewelry. The sick dread that came with thoughts of Ross and her mother and childhood nightmares.
At one-thirty Laurel gave up and switched on the bedside lamp, remembering the night Savannah had come in to check on her and had teased her about her poor taste in nightwear. She got up and changed from one baggy T-shirt to another, and came back to bed with a notepad and pen. Methodically she began making lists and notes, considering suspects and possibilities.
She was exhausted, body and soul, but she forced her mind to work. Like an athlete who had been away from the game with an injury, she felt every move was an effort, but the skills were still there. If she could hang on to the emotion, control her feelings, think clearly, the thoughts would flow easier and answers would come.
Baldwin. His name was a slash of capital letters at the top of the page. He was a liar and a con man. He had a temper. It wasn't difficult to imagine him getting rough with a woman. He had known Savannah, but what about Annie? Why would she have had anything to do with him? She might have gone to him on her parents' behalf. Might even have thought to discredit him with sex.
What about the other women? What about the jewelry? Could Baldwin have gotten Savannah's necklace into her purse without her knowledge? She would never have allowed him near enough when she had the bag with her, but Laurel remembered too clearly the feeling of being watched the night of Annie's wake, when she had come home and gone into the courtyard. The pocketbook had lain on a bench all night. Anyone might have crept into the garden…
… like Jack.
No. She wouldn't even consider it. Jack was no killer.
Did she think that because it was a fact, or because she loved him?
Loved. Past tense.
The thought triggered another memory. Conroy Cooper packing his bags. "… I loved Savannah as best I could…" Loved. Past tense. She scribbled the words down and lifted the pen to chew thoughtfully on the end of it. It was difficult to picture Cooper as a killer with his warm blue eyes and his warm molasses voice.
"Not everyone is what they seem, Laurel…"
She sketched a question mark beside Cooper's name and went on.
Leonce made her uncomfortable, but not through any effort to do so. She felt vaguely guilty suspecting him. He had helped out the Delahoussayes all he could. He'd done his best to be a friend to her. Did she have any real reason to question him?
He had known Annie and Savannah. The others? He traveled some to sing with bands in other towns. That gave him opportunity, but short of questioning him herself, she had no way of knowing the when or where of his schedule. He liked to flirt, but the scar had to turn more women off than on. What kind of resentment would build inside a man from that constant rejection? Enough to make him hate women? Enough to make him kill?
The thought of resentment brought thoughts of Ross, and she added his name to the list, but knew that had less to do with fact than feeling. Still, look what he'd gotten away with for twenty years with no one suspecting.
Laurel blew a breath of frustration up into her bangs as she contemplated the list. Six women were dead. There had to be something that linked someone to all the murders.
Then why hadn't anyone caught him?
A chill crept over her flesh as she stared out the French doors into the dark of the night.
Eyes shine in the night along the bayou. The creatures of the night stalk and prowl. In the shadows the predator waits, watches, savors thoughts of victory. Above, an adversary sits in the glow of a lamp and wonders. An answer may come, but none will believe the truth. Too clever, too cunning, instincts too sharp to make a mistake. Mistakes are made by the weak, by the desperate, by the victim. The predator's mind is clear and sharp. No clouds of grief. No distractions of conscience. Only thoughts of ultimate victory and the taste of blood.
Jack rose from his desk to wander through the halls and rooms of L'Amour, trying not to think, trying not to feel, not at all surprised when he found himself on the balcony, staring across at the light in Laurel's room. She wasn't sleeping. Again.
He couldn't blame her. He knew what it was to lose someone. He knew the automatic questions and recriminations. Could I have done anything to stop it? How could I have let it happen? He still asked himself those questions of Evie's death. Laurel would ask them in regard to Savannah. She would take the burden on her small shoulders. He had accused her of arrogance, but that wasn't it. Responsibility. In a world that seemed increasingly out of anyone's control, Laurel chose to take responsibility-not only for herself, but for everyone around her.
And he wanted responsibility for no one.
But he wanted her love.
Selfish through and through, Jack.
He wasn't meant for love. Had never been. The comforts and warmth of it were for other men, better men.
Even as he thought it, he heard Laurel's voice, trembling with pain and pride. "… I'll be damned if we don't have the power to get past all that and be something better."
He had thought so, too, once. He'd been wrong. He wouldn't risk being wrong again. The pain was too much, too cruel, for a heart that had been broken too many times.
For another long moment he stood on the balcony and listened to thunder rumble in the distance and watched the light across the way. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and the feel of something dark and restless, like eyes in the night. For a second he thought he was being watched, but the restlessness was within him. A need for something he could never have, regret for things he couldn't change. Slowly, he turned and went back in to his bottle and his work with the idea of immersing himself in both.
And in the dark shadows along the bayou, a predator's eyes shine.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Laurel woke with a start and headache. Her breath came in pants as the residual uneasiness of a dream hung around her. Eyes. She'd felt eyes on her, staring from the dark. But she hadn't been able to see the face, had only known somehow that it was familiar.
It was only a dream, but the uneasiness lingered as she sat up slowly and took stock of herself and the room around her. It had rained. The glass of the French doors was spattered with windblown droplets. The weather system had moved on, but gray still clung to the sky where dawn should have been.
She rubbed a hand over her face, groaning a bit as the headache kicked the backs of her eyeballs. She didn't know how long she had slept. An hour, maybe two. The state of the bedclothes was a testimony to how badly she had slept. The sheets were torn loose from the foot of the bed, the spread was rumpled. The notes she had made were scattered.