“No right mind was involved,” the single guy at the end of the bar interjected, then added, “She sure doesn’t look like any of the nuns I had in grade school.” He smiled, hoping to engage the women sitting near him.

They ignored him, as well as the TV.

Slade didn’t say anything. That Camille was beautiful wasn’t an issue in her death.

Though it had been part of her undoing in life.

In his mind’s eye, he saw her again as he had the last time he’d been with her—long, perfect neck, dark hair falling in thick, coiling waves that skimmed the tops of her naked breasts—full, round, with large pink nipples standing at attention, begging for the touch of his fingers and tongue.

A long, knotted rope of pearls had fallen between those breasts, and the electric blue of her eyes had sizzled with the promise of an erotica that had teased at his mind. That girl had opened doors to dark alleys that should have stayed closed forever.

It had been Christmas Eve, rain battering the windows, the East Texas wind blowing cold. With candles lit and the sound of a choir singing “O Holy Night” whispering through the ranch house, Camille had been set on seduction.

And Armageddon had ensued.

Damn it all to hell.

Now the news story changed, and Slade drained his beer. He left some cash on the bar and, with a nod to the tattooed barkeep, strode outside to the heat of late afternoon.

The image of Camille followed him outside, and though he tried to shake it, she hung close, as she had in life. A shimmering ghost. Death had only exacerbated the feeling that she was nearby, that she would never let him be.

Slade walked a few blocks toward the river, striding with purpose. He hardly noticed the people he passed, teenagers in groups, each plugged into an iPod or talking on a cell phone; a jogger, sweating and intent on getting in her predusk workout; two homeless men with beards, backpacks, and watch caps, asking for spare change. Local color was lost on him; his mind was anywhere but here.

The air was heavy, the sultry heat that pressed against his skin thicker than what he was used to in the hill country he called home.

At the top of a levee, he paused to watch ships and boats churn up the murky water of the wide, muddy Mississippi River. The sun hung low in the western sky, promising to dip below the horizon within the next few hours.

Shadows lengthened, but the warmth of the day remained, seeming to ooze from the ground as he walked back to his truck and climbed into the sunbaked interior.