“You’re Bentz,” she guessed without any preamble. “Right?” She wore faded jeans and a gray T-shirt, the strap of an oversized bag slung over one shoulder. The woman was slim, around five eight or nine, and serious as hell. No humor sparked in her eyes, no smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

“That’s right.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Nellie, barely visible in the doorway behind the newcomer, lifted her hands, then dropped them in frustration before wedging her body past the visitor. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, glossy lips pursed into a frown. In a short dress, heels, her straight, blond hair framing her heart-shaped face, Nellie always appeared ready for a surprise photo shoot. “I tried to stop her, but—”

“You checked my bag and practically frisked me,” the woman cut in, sending Nellie a withering glare. “I just need to talk to Detective Bentz.”

Spine stiffening, Nellie wasn’t about to be dismissed. “But—”

“It’s fine, Nellie,” Bentz said, raising a hand. “I’ve got this.”

She hesitated.

“Really,” Bentz nodded.

Her suspicious gaze skated from Bentz to the intruder, then back. Obviously unhappy, she said, “If you say so, Detective.” Not pleased in the least, she let out her breath and walked away, high heels clicking curtly down the hallway.

“I think you ticked her off,” Bentz said.

“Probably.” The woman stared at him. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, and if she was wearing makeup, it was invisible. “But I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. What about, Ms.—?”

“I’m Brianna Hayward.”

He turned her name over in his mind. It rang distant bells.

“Two girls are missing,” she said, her face etched in worry. “Zoe and Chloe Denning. They just turned twenty-one today, and no one’s heard from them since before midnight.” Before he could ask, she said, “We filed a Missing Persons Report in Baton Rouge, where they live, but they were last seen celebrating in New Orleans.” She slid a page across his desk. On it were three pictures. Two were head shots of nearly identical women, each with a big smile and streaked blond hair. One was marked Zoe, the other Chloe.

“Twins?” He felt his stomach tighten. “Just turning twenty-one?” Memories of other cases came to mind, double homicide cases of twin sisters who had been ritualistically murdered the moment each became a legal adult.

“Yeah.” She didn’t mince words, but met his gaze and he felt a cold knot of dread tighten in his gut. Not that there was any connection. There couldn’t be. He turned his attention to the photographs.

The third photo showed the two young women dressed in short dresses and tall high heels. It was a glamour shot, their streaked hair pulled away from their identical faces to fall in loose curls down their backs as they hugged each other.

“Where’d you get these?” he asked, pointing at the images.