Stunned by the reprieve, she searched for an answer. It would not do to have him think her limited. Then she knew. “Psychology.”

“Why?”

Analise didn’t answer aloud. How could she explain the need to understand the people around her, hoping she might understand herself?

“No matter. Psychology it is.”

ERIN RODE HER bike along the midday street, shaken by the memory. It would be a small victory if Nathan’s tyranny helped her save another person’s life. A small but vital balance to the scales of justice.

Phoebe Bailey’s digs were a far cry from the historical charm of the Lower Garden District or the tony mansion Singleton’s family had inherited. She lived in a shotgun cottage on the outskirts of the neighborhood, where seediness nipped at the historical legacy. The home that had been the dancer’s had been quickly turned over to new, taciturn occupants.

Moving to the next bungalow, Erin introduced herself as a reporter and found herself ushered inside a dimly lit parlor that smelled of peppermint and biscuits. After making small talk, Erin broached the subject of Phoebe Bailey’s murder.

“The police aren’t trying hard enough,” Mrs. Caroline Littlejohn complained, a wizened old woman with skin the color of maple leaves in autumn. The ancient voice shook in outrage. “It’s because she was a dancer. Not a hoity-toity hotshot.”

“I understand they found her at the menagerie.” The stabled horses were rented out for carriage rides. Erin had been to the stables in the Quarter a few times, as her own version of therapy.

She remembered how horses had terrified Nathan, which had been reason enough for her to sneak out of the house when he was in class. She’d learned to ride in secret, a tiny triumph over his tyranny. The sorrel mare called Willow had become her confidante. Until the day Erin’s riding instructor passed her and Nathan at a play and complimented her on her improvement.

That night, he had locked her in her room. After he released her two days later, she never rode again.

Refusing to succumb to memory, Erin sipped at the glass of thickly sweet tea pressed upon her by Mrs. Littlejohn. “Do you know why anyone would want to harm her?”

“Absolutely not! Phoebe was a darling, with that lovely accent. She was from the islands, you know.” Mrs. Littlejohn swelled with pride. “My family was from Barbados. Nicer than Jamaica.”

Erin smiled weakly. “Barbados is a beautiful country. Do you ever visit?”

“Shucks, no. I took a boat over here. I’m too old to return by boat and my feet ain’t left the ground in eighty-two years. The Good Lord wants me home, He’ll send me there like they do on that Star Trek program. Beam me up.” She chuckled over her witticism.

“I never had the pleasure of seeing Phoebe perform. I understand she danced calypso.”