Whatever it is, I have to give the sender credit. My curiosity is piqued.

Trap or not, I have to learn more. Today is Mardi Gras, and I can’t risk not responding.

I slip out of bed and into the pair of jeans and wrinkled black T-shirt lying nearby on the floor. I try to be as quiet as I can. But apparently, not quiet enough.

“Where are you going?”

Vanessa stirs awake under the covers. Even in the bedroom’s darkness, I can see her worried face.

“Nowhere. Won’t be gone long. Go back to sleep.”

But she grasps my hand, pulls me down beside her.

“Not fair,” she says. “No more secrets between us. No more lies. I thought that’s what we promised each other, didn’t we?”

I nod. We made that vow only hours ago, on the drive from her house to this place.

“I’m following up a possible new lead,” I say. “At police headquarters. That’s where I’m going and that’s all I know. I swear.”

She stares at me for a moment. Then gently touches my cheek.

“Just be careful, okay? If something happened to you, Caleb … ”

She trails off. Swallows hard.

“I will,” I answer. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Always.”

We share a brief kiss. Then I rise from the bed. I take my Smith & Wesson from the top of the nightstand. Tuck it into my jeans.

“Vanessa, I can’t stand thinking of something happening to you,” I say. “Please reconsider … please leave the city. It’s not safe here.”

“Are you staying?” she asks.

“You know I am.”

She burrows herself back into the sheets. “Then I know I’ll be safe, Caleb. Always.”

And so I leave.

The drive at this hour from this little house to the police station should only take around ten minutes. Since I’ve got about fifty more to kill, I make a pit stop into this stranger’s kitchen, and spend a few minutes doing a food-related recon. Not bad.

This home doesn’t belong to me. It’s owned by my PI friend, Gordon Andrews. He uses it as a secret spot to meet with clients who don’t want to be seen in public or his office with him, or who need a safe place to hide out during a crisis. A call to him once I left with Vanessa led him to offering this home to me, as long as I wanted, which was probably going to be as long as the FBI was pissed at me.

He’s as much of a foodie as I am, and though he leans to the, er, alcoholic side of “food and beverage,” he’s outdone himself with what he has in the larder.

I fire up the stove and boil a fresh pot of savory grits. Once they’re simmering, I drown them in heavy cream, garlic butter, and aged Parmesan cheese.