She thought back over her recent trip to California, where she’d run into so many dead ends. The LAPD hadn’t been responsive, the officer who had arrested Donovan Caldwell for the crime having retired, and the DA who had prosecuted the case was no longer with the department. His replacement, a stern woman of around fifty, was not interested in anything about the case other than keeping the convicted man known as the 21 Killer behind bars. The LA bureaucracy saw Brianna as some relative of the convicted killer who wouldn’t accept the truth.

As if!

She slid a glance at Selma whose eyes were closed, her arms wrapped protectively around her thin body. Was it really possible? Could it be that Selma’s two precious daughters, on the cusp of becoming adults, had been kidnapped by 21?

If so, it was far too late.

The killer would have ended their lives precisely twenty-one years from the time Selma had brought them into the world.

Heart filled with dread, she drove into the city of Baton Rouge and turned onto the street that would lead into the center of All Saints’ campus. Brianna and Selma had decided that they needed to begin their search in the girls’ dormitory. Brianna tried to picture Chloe peering out from under the covers of her bed or Zoe answering the door, telling her mother to mind her own business. She hoped those images were not just a fantasy.

To that end, as the car nosed its way under the archway at the college’s southern border, Brianna sent up a small prayer for the Denning twins’ safety.

At the sound of an outboard engine, Bentz turned toward the water to watch as an aluminum craft appeared, rounding a bend in the bayou.

Leaving a small wake, the boat sidled up to the old pier. Ray Calloway, a barrel-chested African American who was manning the tiller, cut the engine. With a nod at Bentz, he found a rope and looped it over a post sticking up from the dismal dock.

“Ray,” Bentz said, stepping aboard the gently rocking boat. “Thanks for coming.”

“Any time, any time. You know it. Good ta see ya, Bentz.” The boat’s owner was an ex-cop who spent his days fishing these bayous. “No trouble at all,” he said as Montoya took a seat on the bench already occupied by Bentz. “Been too long.”

“That it has.” Bentz made quick introductions, then Calloway unhitched the boat, started the engine, and guided the craft across the murky water. Bentz didn’t like the feel of the area where alligators slid slowly through the swamp and water moccasins made their home.

“I hate this place,” Montoya admitted.

“The bayou?”

“No, this place.” He motioned to the shadowy thicket where Father John had resided during his reign of terror. His eyes darkened to nearly black. “Evil lived here.”

Bentz said, “A long time ago.”

“Doesn’t matter. I figure it still exists.”