“We all grew up around here,” she said, but it was odd; they both knew it. She and Cammie had left New Orleans after high school, and she’d thought O’Toole had, too. It seemed strange that he would go to seminary nearby and end up at St. Marguerite’s. Usually priests moved around. Then again, maybe his father had bought him a spot near home; churches had been known to swing things for generous donors.

As for Reuben Montoya, she had not run into him since Catholic school, but it was a surprise to learn he’d ended up a detective with the New Orleans Police Department. She would never have pegged him for becoming a cop; if anything, she’d thought he might turn up on the other side of the law. And here he was, a detective. Maybe a lifelong resident of New Orleans.

Slade parked nearby in a small lot dedicated to Briarstone House. This time he had the grace not to block her car.

“It’s all pretty strange,” Slade thought aloud.

“Very.” She didn’t put a lot of stock in coincidence. She’d spent too many years as a cop to be that naive. She’d learned to see past the obvious, beneath the veneer of what appeared to be the truth.

And one of the things that bothered her now was the fact that Slade had appeared on her doorstep not long before she learned about her sister’s murder.

Another coincidence.

She slid him a look as he cut the engine.

“So what’s your story, Cowboy?” she asked, reaching for the door handle. “Why are you here?”

One side of his mouth curved up into that crooked smile that she’d once found so breathtaking. “I thought I already told you,” he said with an irritating confidence. “I’m here to talk you out of the divorce.”

“And didn’t I tell you to take a hike? It’s over.” He started to open his mouth, and she held up a hand. “And look, I—Okay, we’ve been through a major shock here, but I’m not going to let you use Cammie’s death as an excuse to stay. I can handle this, Slade.” When he again seemed to protest, she reminded him, “I was a cop.”

“This is different and you know it.”

“Just leave.” She opened the door of the cab. “But the dog stays. Thanks for bringing Bo.” She climbed out of the truck and heard him do the same. As she pushed open the gate, he was at her side, walking with her stride for stride to the front door of the inn.

“I’m telling you. Bo stays with me.” His boots clambered up the two long steps in tandem with hers.

“You’re not taking the hint.” She turned as they reached the door and for the first time noticed his backpack. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”