Later today he planned to install yet another new lock on the door, one that Irene Calloway, her grandson, or anyone else they thought needed a key, wouldn’t have. He also considered installing a camera for the front porch. Afterward he would double-check on the staff of All Saints, particularly Dr. Dominic Grotto. Jay had already retrieved some information, but it was spotty at best and he wanted to do a deeper background check on the instructors who had taught the missing students. Jay also was going to take the official tour of Wagner House while Kristi was working. Something had been going on there last night, long after the museum doors were supposed to have been locked, something that frightened the bejeezus out of Kristi, who didn’t scare easily.

He turned a corner just as a beagle puppy dashed into the street. Jay jammed on his brakes. Bruno fell against the dash. “Christ!” A sedan coming the other way skidded to a stop.

A tall, thin man in his twenties, running with a leash wound in one hand, sprinted between the cars, yelling as he chased after the wayward dog.

“You okay, buddy?” Jay asked Bruno, his heart beating overtime.

Bruno climbed into the passenger seat again and barked at the disappearing pup while Jay drove the few blocks to the bungalow. At the house, Bruno pressed his nose closer to the glass and wagged his tail.

“You think this is home?” Jay asked, and parked in front of the dilapidated cottage with its sagging porch and overgrown yard. “Nah!”

But then what was? His sterile place in New Orleans?

That wasn’t any better.

Truth to tell, since Katrina, Jay had been restless, feeling as if he didn’t truly belong anywhere any longer. His renovated apartment had suddenly seemed small and confining, and when he’d stayed with Gayle in those months they’d dated, he’d felt as if he hadn’t belonged at all, always concerned about wearing his shoes in the house or spilling coffee…no, her house had been too perfect, everything in its place except for Jay. He’d been the one thing Gayle had chosen that hadn’t fit into her home or her life.

Then there was Kristi’s studio, where he could pop a beer, eat cold pizza on a Sunday morning, or leave his jeans crumpled on the floor.

“So what?” he said aloud.

Kristi Bentz’s apartment was no more the answer to his need for a permanent home than this cottage that belonged to his cousins.