In the earlier hours of what had become morning, Gabriel drove out of the city proper and onto one of the narrow, meandering roads that led into the swamps of Orleans Parish, unmindful of the natural panoply spread out along the path of scattered gravel and packed mud.

His singular thought was to get his too-silent passenger to safety. To get her home. That it was his home, rather than hers, didn’t matter. All that concerned him was erasing the frozen look of horror from her eyes. The Moss family, like many of the natives, kept what the old folks called hidey-holes near the edge of the swamp. He would take her there and, he hoped, pry from her the secrets she held so close they seared straight through.

Unbidden, the image of a nearly catatonic Erin curled into the dead girl’s body swam before him. Impotent rage, redoubled in strength, welled inside and demanded release. Unable to do more than swear ripely beneath his breath, he stomped at the gas pedal, and the Jeep shot forward. Headlights bounced over ruts, bent as they traveled the sinuous road at a clip.

Oblivious to his mood or his plans, Erin huddled against the metal doorframe, staring aimlessly at the clear, beautiful night that seemed interminable. Intermittent shivers coursed through her, and she was powerless to halt their passage. The thin blanket Gabriel had tossed over her was gathered beneath her chin. Still caught between waking and nightmare, she breathed deep. It smelled of Gabriel, of strength and sandalwood and comfort.

Nathan had a different scent, she remembered. Expensive cologne, the fragrance of the season, had always been his choice. It had given her headaches, but she rarely complained, learning that complaints would lead to a different kind of pain.

THE PAIN HAD pounded in her head. She’d been at his computer for hours, finishing the paper for him. Her own dissertation collected dust on the writing table he’d allowed her in the tiny pink bedroom upstairs. But his conference in Italy was in less than a month, and he needed her to finish this paper. She would make any changes silently. She’d learned years ago not to correct him aloud.

He read over her shoulder, his teeth clicking together impatiently when she made a mistake. She tried to type faster. But it was difficult to think clearly when her skull felt as though it had been driven through with spikes.

“Nathan.” She kept her voice low, penitent. “I’m sorry, but I can’t concentrate. Your cologne. I have a headache.”

“Fine.” Nathan jerked the chair and tipped it over. She tumbled to the floor, cowered there. He kicked the chair aside. “Get out! Get the hell out of my house!”