“I hope not. Think of all the fun we’d be missing.” She kissed him soundly on the mouth then, the shower still spraying them, then disentangled herself and grabbed a towel. “What a difference a few days make.” She was thinking of earlier in the week when an intruder had been in her home as she’d stood under the shower’s spray.

“Hey!” He grabbed her arm. “About last night—”

“Pretty damned great, right?” she teased.

He didn’t smile. “Yeah, it was. But before. You had a nightmare . . .”

“The same one I’ve had for years. I had it as a child, and for a long time it was gone . . . then . . .” She thought for a moment and didn’t want to dwell too deeply on the monsters of her subconscious. “It’s returned.”

“Since when?” he asked, and she didn’t have to think too hard.

“Since I came back to New Orleans,” she admitted, but didn’t add, Since I left you back in Bad Luck.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” She was certain of that. Thinking of the dream would only shatter the peace of mind they’d found together, ruin it all. “Maybe later.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” She looked straight into his eyes, where drips of water were still starring his lashes. “In time.” She slipped out of his grip and steadfastly shoved all thoughts of the nightmare from her mind.

Once she’d toweled off and thrown on her robe, she started coffee and let an anxious Bo out as the warm Louisiana sun began to warm the day. Lights were on in the main house, and birds were already chattering, though traffic was sluggish, as it was the weekend.

Slade, dressed only in low-slung jeans, walked into the kitchen. “You could get lucky today,” he said with a wink.

“I thought I already did.”

“That was me. But I could take you out to breakfast. What about beignets down by the river? I’d even spring for some fancy coffee drink—you know, the kind those people in the Northwest are so nuts about.”

“A latte?”

“Or whatever.”

“Sure, but first I have a few duties here. Let me help Freya and then we’ll—”

Her cell phone rang and she picked it up. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID but answered anyway. “Hello?” she said as Bo whined to be let in and the coffeemaker gurgled.

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Her heart froze.

“Is anyone there?”

“You’re nexxxxxxt,” the snakelike voice hissed. “And there is no essssscape.”

As the sun crested the eastern sky and fingers of gray light slipped through the streets and alleys of New Orleans, Montoya found his brother outside. Cruz was seated on the back stoop, Hershey lying at his feet, his battered motorcycle helmet at his side, a cigarette burning, unsmoked between his fingers.

To top things off, Cruz smelled like a brewery.