“Down in that devil’s lair, yes.” The lady sniffed. “But on Sundays, she played for the Antioch Baptist Church. You know, she first came over to the United States to attend that fancy school for music in New York.”

“Ju-Juilliard?” Erin stuttered out the question, but Mrs. Littlejohn failed to notice.

“That’s the one. But she broke one of her fingers on the subways there, and that was the end of it.” Fierce with loyalty, she added, “I still think she played like a dream.”

Erin barely heard the passionate defense. She concentrated her energy on fighting off a smothering blanket of panic. Out of hundreds of books, she’d found one written by Nathan. His last one. Burleigh Singleton had grown up in San Cabes, a remote town where Nathan kept a cabin. And now, she found that a calypso dancer named Phoebe Bailey had once attended Juilliard. Like Nathan.

It couldn’t be coincidence.

Gulping down the rest of her tea, Erin got to her feet. She set the glass on a coaster decorated in butterflies. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Littlejohn.”

Erin helped the older woman to stand. They walked together to the front door. “No bother a’tall. Don’t get many visitors at my age.”

“That’s a shame. You’re a wonderful lady.” On impulse, she kissed the woman’s wrinkled cheek.

Outside, Erin grappled with the implications of what she’d learned. Nathan Rhodes was dead. She’d shot him, felt his blood thick and cold on her hands. Together, she and Sebastian had tossed the body into the canyons of San Cabes.

Someone had seen her do it.

Someone who had tracked her to New Orleans. Lost in bleak thought, she retrieved her bicycle and pushed it forward. The notes, the obituaries and clues that pointed to Nathan. Clues only she would understand.

The murderer wanted her to see him. To find him.

Murder, to him, was a means to an end. A means he enjoyed. For all the linguistic maneuvering, at the core, she thought, he was just a killer. Julian Harris, she’d bet, hadn’t been his first victim.

Then there were the clues themselves. Burleigh and Phoebe had natural ties to Nathan. But Julian’s link had been manufactured. A book slipped onto a shelf, waiting for her to stumble across it.

Nathan Rhodes had terrorized her, controlled her.

She’d broken free, and the killer hated her for it.

Who are you? Erin wondered. What do you want from me when I find you?

“Why don’t you drive, Erin?” Erin heard a voice say beside her.

Jolted from her thoughts, she stopped the bike and took a fortifying breath. Certain she wouldn’t curse, she turned to glare at her shadow. “Go away, Gabriel. There are thousands of other women for you to chase.”