Tanisha wasn’t amused. She glared at Jenkins. “Fine. From now on, the cream and sugar and whatever anyone wants, that’s your job.” She pointed a glossy-tipped finger at the middle of Jenkins’s chest. “And while you’re at it, maybe some of that foo-foo flavoring. Hazelnut, or vanilla, or whatever other crap you all are into.”

“Wow. Seems to be an epidemic of irritation around here.”

“Excuse me?” Tanisha demanded hotly, but Jenkins backed off and found his seat.

“Take it down a notch,” Brianna suggested to Tanisha, and patted the air in a “calm down” motion. “This is supposed to be a support group.”

“Humph. With numb nuts?” Tanisha’s eyes narrowed on Jenkins.

“Hey!” Brianna shook her head. This could escalate no further. “We’re not in second grade. Okay?”

With an effort Tanisha tamped down her temper. “Yeah, I know. I’m just edgy. Lack of sleep.”

Reining things in, Brianna focused on Selma. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“No, but . . . why not? I can’t just sit in the apartment.”

“Okay, then maybe you should be first tonight. Come on.” She guided Selma into a chair and took the seat next to her.

Although Tanisha left the steaming cup of decaf on a small table beside her, Selma didn’t seem to notice. She clasped her hands between her knees and hung her head for a few seconds. Then when she finally pulled herself together enough so that she could talk, she took a deep breath. “This isn’t about Sandra,” she said, mentioning the twin sister she’d lost fourteen years earlier. “It’s about my daughters, Zoe and Chloe.” Her voice cracked on their names. “They’re missing.”

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 11

“I don’t need much,” Edward said from somewhere on the other end of the phone connection, most likely the Texas hill country, where he’d been born and raised and had brought up his sons until moving to the farm outside of New Orleans.

Jase imagined his father, thin as a rail, lines marring his face, the scents of smoke and stale whiskey clinging to a graying beard that needed to be trimmed and jeans that hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for several weeks. Once a lean, tough ranch hand whose craggy face and sexy smile had caused more than his share of female hearts to skip a beat, Edward Bridges was now a ghost of his former Marlboro Man self. “You know, I just could use enough to get me through to the first of the month when I get my check.” Ed’s words were slurred as he wheedled his way through the pitch, which was always the case when he called to ask his son for money.