I grip her shoulders. Partly to calm her, partly to steady myself.

“You need to leave the city,” I say. “As soon as you can. Promise me, okay?”

“What?” she asks, wiping at her sleepy eyes. “Why?”

“Something’s going to happen tomorrow. And, and … ”

“And what?” she says, now coming more fully awake. “What kind of thing—”

“I’ve been working a case. Terrorism. Someone’s plotting an attack on Mardi Gras.”

In shock, she covers her face with her hands.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers. “What kind of attack?”

“Maybe a bombing,” I say. “Or a nerve agent. There might be snipers on rooftops. Or some kind of rampage. Damnit, I don’t know! I don’t know when, either. Or where. So what I’m saying is, you have to leave. You can’t be anywhere near this thing when—”

“Lucas!” she yells. “No!”

CHAPTER 70

Out of the corner of my eye I see Lucas coming up behind me.

Actually, I see his reflection—in the rectangular, floor-level mirror built into the wall of the entryway.

It’s not an uncommon feature in this kind of old, fancy New Orleans home. High-society ladies once used it to make sure their ankles and hoop skirts weren’t showing before they stepped out on the town.

Tonight, this mirror designed for fashion is now being used both tactically and defensively.

I glimpse him, his face twisted with anger, holding the blue-and-white porcelain vase that was resting on the entry table. In what feels like slow motion, I watch him get closer. Raise the vase. Lunge at me.

Timing it just right, I duck and spin around. I weave like a boxer to avoid the blow. Then I grab his wrists and shove him hard against the wall. The vase slips to the floor and shatters. He grunts. Whimpers. Crumples to the floor.

“You sad, sad little man,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Me?” he tries to protest. “You … you’re the one … messing around with my wife!”

I take a step toward him, towering over him.

I’ve put up with his bullshit long enough.

“Wife? She’s your prisoner. You’ve been controlling her for years. And everyone here knows it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demands, scurrying back, still sitting on the entryway floor.

But he’s just playing dumb. Between the rumors that Gordon dug up and everything I’ve learned from Vanessa—her scars, her sobriety, her distress—I’ve put all the pieces together.

It’s time the truth came out.