“Something’s happened. Oh, God.” Selma clamped a bony hand over her mouth for a second, then let it fall. “You don’t think . . . I mean, it’s impossible that the two of them together were . . . kidnapped.” Her voice trailed off as she considered the horrible possibility.

Brianna’s heart turned stone cold. “I don’t know what to think,” she said, half-lying. “But come in, come in.” She waved Selma inside and stepped out of the doorway, casting a quick glance to the still-dark street. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. She pulled the door firmly shut. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Sensing the dread in her new companion, Brianna ushered Selma past the living area to the back of the house where a pot of coffee was brewing, the last of the water gurgling through the grounds. St. Ives was stretched out on a rug near the French doors, which gave the tabby a view of the backyard. Brianna imagined the cat looking forward to the day’s activity in the yard, where birds would flit across the stone paths and splash in the fountain, and squirrels would tease from the twisted branches of the live oak trees that shaded a small café table. Such a simple life.

“Coffee?” Brianna offered, opening a cupboard and scrounging inside to locate a cup that wasn’t chipped. “Black, right?”

“Yes, that’s . . . that’ll be fine.” Selma struggled against tears as she dropped onto a bar stool at the counter.

“So why don’t you start over? At the beginning.” Ignoring the icy feeling seeping through her blood, she tried to convince herself that this was just a coincidence. That was all. Of course, Selma’s twin daughters were fine. Right?

“As I said, today is their birthday.” Selma’s voice was a dry whisper. “Their twenty-first.”

Oh, God.

That was why the fear in Selma’s pale eyes was so real, so visceral.

Brianna tried to keep calm. “Just because they were turning—”

“Don’t!” Selma ordered, her voice surprisingly fierce, her blue eyes sparking. “Just don’t . . . don’t patronize me. Okay?” She sniffed and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “We’ve been friends too long for that.”

Fair enough. “Okay.”

“Good. We both know what this could mean.” Her chin wobbled and she closed her eyes. “You, especially.”

That much was true. They both knew that Brianna had been studying the 21 Killer for years. Dubbed “21” by the press, the killer had terrorized Southern California a few years back. The police had finally arrested Donovan Caldwell, who had been tried and convicted as the killer.

But Brianna didn’t believe Caldwell capable of the ritualistic murders, and she feared that 21 was killing again, broadening his hunting ground. But here, in Louisiana? She held her tongue as she poured coffee into two cups. “Let’s not go immediately to the worst-case scenario,” she said, even as her mind was leaping ahead.