Startled, Katie turned around. And she frowned, confused and oddly filled with a strange little sizzle of déjà vu and anger.

She knew the man who had spoken. Well, she didn’t know him, but she’d seen him before.

He’d been with the cops trying to prove George Calabria was a psychotic killer. Six years ago, when she’d gone down to George’s trial in Orlando, she had been an excellent character witness for him. She’d been infuriated the police had wanted to skewer the poor man just because he’d been living in Orlando.

The man’s wife had been brutally butchered along with her parents; he’d had to be in a different place if he’d planned on starting over after all that happened.

The officer who had been speaking with her—Stanley, apparently—looked up indignantly. “Hey, come on, Dan! You don’t work here. I’m not even sure what you’re doing here. You can’t just—”

“Stanley, I’ll take over,” another man said as he stepped into the office. The way he seemed to own the space suggested to Katie this might be the detective she was waiting for. “Dan, what’s going on?”

Dan spoke without taking his eyes off her. “Ryder, this is Katie Delaney. Her parents were killed twelve years ago in waters down by the Florida Keys. She has every right to be here. You’re going to want to listen to what she has to say.”

He was helping her? He was still the enemy. He might be trying to find a way to prove that poor George Calabria was here, in New Orleans, and chopping people up again!

“Miss Delaney? I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Detective Ryder Stapleton. Please come to my office if you don’t mind.”

She had to crane her neck to take in the detective. She was seated; maybe that was why the two men seemed so tall. But, of course, she’d seen the one before, the Florida cop or agent or whatever. His name was Daniel Oliver. He stood a good six-three, had a broad-shouldered and lean-muscled body, a clean-shaven face with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, dark hair and piercing amber eyes. He was probably considered good-looking by most, but she had noted that for only a few minutes back in Orlando. Because after she’d seen him testify—seen the way he’d looked at George with fire in those eyes—she’d written him off as a complete ass, rude and ridiculous.

And here he was again.

But at least he was getting her to a cop who might listen to her.

She’d see him long enough to get where she needed to be, and then he’d be out of her life again.

She briefly wondered what the hell he was doing in New Orleans.

It didn’t matter.

“Miss?”