Kristi changed into her pajamas, carefully removing the vial from around her neck, feeling faintly guilty about not telling Jay she’d worn it. When she returned to the living room, Jay was building a fire from wood scraps. Eager flames snapped and popped, the scent of wood smoke permeated the rooms, and Jay then cracked a bottle of red wine. They drank out of paper cups and sat propped up against worn furniture covered with sheetrock dust. “Home sweet home.” An ironic twinkle sparked in his eyes.

“I saw Hiram at the play tonight,” she said, staring into her cup. “It was all I could do not to go up to him and accuse him of being a pervert.”

“He would just deny it.”

“I know, but if not him, then he gave my key to someone. Or maybe Irene did.”

“Yeah, like the cable guy or phone repairman, or a plumber. We don’t know who this guy is.”

“It hasn’t been that long since I changed the locks.”

“We’ll get him,” Jay predicted. “Just be patient.”

“You mean, more patient.”

He smiled but didn’t argue. A damned good idea. Kristi knew that patience wasn’t her long suit, but lately, what little patience she possessed had been stretched thin. It seemed as if she were forever waiting, biding her time, hoping for a break.

“You know, I can’t stay here while you’re in New Orleans,” Kristi said. “I have to go back to my apartment.”

Jay vehemently shook his head. “How would that make you feel, knowing his camera’s still there? That he could come for it at any time? It’s not safe. Don’t worry, I’ll drive back after I get off work. Commute.”

“After ten-hour days?”

“It’s not that far.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“We’re talking four nights a week.”

“I can take care of myself,” she assured him, growing slightly testy. It was one thing to have him be concerned for her safety, quite another to have him try to bully himself into her life. Overprotect her. She’d been down that road.

“I’m coming back and that’s that, but I do have to go to the crime lab,” he admitted, then proceeded to tell her about everything he’d learned from Sonny Crawley before she could offer further protest.

Kristi listened, flabbergasted, as he spelled out what he knew from the discovery of the female arm and hand in the gator’s belly, to the search of the swamp where the reptile had been found. She didn’t interrupt when he explained how the police were trying to ID the person to whom the arm had belonged, and that he’d asked his friend in the department to search through DMV and criminal records.