“The police have released Camille’s body,” Valerie said as she clicked her cell phone shut, and a cold wave washed through her body. She was in the passenger seat of Slade’s truck, returning from their breakfast of beignets and café au lait at the long, low restaurant in the French Quarter. They’d sat beneath slow-moving paddle fans, listening to the buzz of conversation while watching the Mississippi roll slowly toward the Gulf.

Water fowl had cruised the shore, smaller birds hopping along the sidewalk hoping for crumbs.

Slade had insisted that they go, so, after she’d called Rick Bentz at the police department, helped Freya with the breakfast and dishes at Briarstone, and met with an officer who came out to take her statement, she’d agreed.

Getting out of the house and into the bustle of the city had helped elevate her mood and stopped her from dwelling on the sibilant voice’s threat.

You’re nexxxt. Breathy pause. There is no esssscape.

She and Slade hadn’t talked about it during all of their time away from the cottage. They’d agreed the subject was taboo and had enjoyed their time together. It was almost as if they were falling in love for the first time.

Except, she reminded herself as the truck hit a pothole and bounced, this was round two.

And the peaceful morning that they had managed to restore had been shattered, the call from the funeral home bringing Val back to earth, to reality and the soul-scraping truth that her sister had been murdered, the victim of a psychopath whose thirst for blood was yet unquenched.

Her jaw tightened at the unfairness of it all. Who was this creep, and how the hell were they going to catch him and throw his ass in jail? She wanted revenge; she wanted the bastard to pay, and she was frustrated that he hadn’t been identified.

If not that swine of a vow-breaking priest, O’Toole, then who? she thought idly as Slade braked for a woman pushing a baby carriage, then turned the corner onto St. Charles Avenue. On one side of the avenue, they passed Audubon Park, on the other the circular drive of Loyola University, one of the buildings looking like a medieval fortress built of red brick. Next to Loyola were the groomed lawns leading to the pale bricks of a massive edifice that was part of Tulane University. “The Harvard of the South,” according to some of her friends who had graduated from the school. That was up for debate, though, she knew, as she looked at the arched windows and the smooth grass, the beauty of the campus.

Two schools Camille would never have a chance to visit.

“You know,” Slade said as he turned down the side street leading to Briarstone. “We don’t have to go to the auction tonight.” He’d been worried all day, ever since the morning telephone call.