He was convinced that someone from his past, or Jennifer’s past, was tracking him down. But who? Why? And why screw with his mind?

He slowed for a red light, brooding as the Jeep idled. Overhead, dark clouds scudded slowly across the sky and the smell of the Mississippi River reached his nostrils through the open window.

He remembered Jennifer’s image as she’d stood in the woods skirting his backyard. So close to his house—Olivia’s home. And now the photographs. He glanced to the passenger seat. The picture of Jennifer crossing the street met his eye. Either the woman in the photo was his ex-wife or a dead ringer.

Ghosts don’t show in photographs.

Crazy manifestations aren’t real images and therefore cannot be caught on film.

So she was real?

His gut tightened.

So who had been in the backyard of his home, the house that Olivia had brought into the marriage? All in all, this latest encounter was too close for comfort. Too close to Olivia.

He didn’t like the thought of his wife being dragged into this, whatever the hell it was. She lived here, too, and just the inkling of her safety being the least bit compromised didn’t set well. Olivia had always felt safe at this house. Though Hairy S was useless as a guard dog, they did have a security system Bentz had insisted she install years ago. They rarely used it, but that would have to change.

The light turned green and he waited for an elderly woman on a scooter who was still in the crosswalk. Once she’d eased out of the way, he took the corner fast, then stood on the brakes. A jaywalking teenage boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts loped across the pavement while plugged into his iPod. The kid never noticed that Bentz had nearly mowed him over.

Bentz cruised past the station and noted that Brinkman had parked in the spot Bentz usually claimed. No big surprise there; Brinkman, though a good cop, was always a pain in the ass. And who could blame the prick? It’s not as if Bentz could use it anyway. “Have at,” he said, then drove to a coffee shop with Internet access. He linked up as he sipped iced coffee. Crunching ice cubes, he searched for any information he could find on his first wife, even Googled himself in the process. For the most part, he was considered a hero, having solved more than one serial murder case since being hired by the New Orleans PD.

But there was some bad press, too. From L.A., stories surrounding a cop with a tarnished badge, who had left the department with a high-profile case still unsolved.

Then there was the shooting when he’d mistaken a twelve-year-old boy with a toy gun for a killer intending to take down his partner. Bentz had warned the kid, then fired.