“Sounds like she deserves a piece of this cheesecake,” Eleonore said. “Don’t tell me the DA is pressing charges.”

“No,” Shaye said. “He didn’t pursue it.”

“Smart move,” Eleonore said. “The last thing you want during the next election is to be the prosecutor who picks on abused women.”

Corrine frowned. “Wait a minute. Is your client Emma Frederick?”

Shaye looked at her mother, a bit surprised. “Yes. Do you know her?”

“Not well, but I’ve spoken to her at the hospital over some of my charges and liked her. I heard a little about what happened to her. She’s so nice. I can’t believe she has more problems after everything she’s been through. So what’s the case, or can’t you say?”

“There’s no confidentiality laws for PIs, if that’s what you mean. Decorum dictates that I don’t go around blabbing, but since you’re here and asking, maybe you can give me your professional opinions.”

The two women looked at each other and frowned. Shaye already knew what they were thinking—if she wanted the professional opinions of a social worker and a shrink, this case was a doozy.

“My client is being stalked, but he’s very clever. So clever that the police didn’t believe her.”

“But you do?” Eleonore asked.

“Yes.” Shaye told them about the first incidents that Emma had. “But he’s escalating.” She went on to tell them about today’s events with the scarf and birthday card.

“Oh my God,” Corrine said when she finished. “That’s why you took those sample books from the house today. You were afraid he might be watching.”

Shaye nodded. “She’s selling the house, so interior decorator was a logical cover. I don’t want him to know Emma has help.”

“Damn straight you don’t want him to know,” Eleonore said. “I don’t think I have to tell you how bad this situation is. I assume you’ve gone to the police with this new evidence?”

Shaye squirmed a bit. “Not yet.”

“What the heck are you waiting for?” Corrine asked, practically hopping in her seat.

“The lead detective kinda pissed me off,” Shaye said. “He basically implied that Emma was weak, and it was all in her head.”

Eleonore shook her head. “The woman killed her husband—a man with far more strength and skill than she had—and she’s the weak one? When was this detective born, the 1700s?”

“Actually, he’s probably only a little older than you,” Shaye said.

Eleonore looked over at Corrine. “And you ask me why I don’t date. Look at the pool I’ve got to choose from.”

Corrine rolled her eyes. “Because every fiftysomething in New Orleans is that guy. Your dating excuses are as bad as mine.”

Eleonore turned back to face Shaye, not bothering to acknowledge Corrine’s statements. “Surely there’s someone else you could talk to? The New Orleans Police Department has got to employ at least one person with a brain.”

“There was one guy,” Shaye said. “The rude detective’s partner. He’s younger, like me, and didn’t seem to like the old detective any more than I did.”

“So he doesn’t think your client is frail and imagining things?” Corrine asked.

“He said he found her credible, but without evidence, his hands are tied.”

“But you have evidence now,” Corrine said. “The scarf and the card.”

“Yes,” Shaye agreed, “but what can he do? We have no idea who the stalker is, and the police aren’t in the business of playing bodyguard in case someone is in danger. They don’t have the resources, and unfortunately, a nurse who lacks political or economical connections isn’t going to get anything beyond the norm.”

“She’s right,” Eleonore said. “I don’t like it and I still think it should be reported, but right now, this is still a case of harassment by an unknown party. The stalker hasn’t made a physical threat.”

“So the police should only concern themselves with investigating crime rather than preventing it?” Corrine argued. “You know the threat is coming.”

“That’s exactly what I said to the younger detective,” Shaye said.

Eleonore shook her head. “He’s getting off on terrifying her—the scarf, the card—purely psychological stuff.”

“And when he gets bored with that?” Corrine asked.

“He’ll kill her.”

Chapter Eight

Shaye tossed and turned in her bed, unable to relax. Every time she started to doze off, Eleonore’s words echoed through her mind on stereo. Before she’d even asked for her opinion, Shaye already knew that Eleonore would say the stalker’s ultimate plan was to kill Emma. He was a cat with a mouse, playing with her until the fun was gone. But hearing Eleonore say it made it more real. More immediate.

Her foot began to ache and she flung the covers off and sat up, drawing her leg up so she could rub her foot. She’d had two surgeries to try to fix the damage, and they’d succeeded in allowing her to walk without a limp, but the pain was never completely gone. It remained there, lurking just beneath the surface, ready to spring up at a moment’s notice to remind her that she wasn’t the same as other people and never would be.

Rain must be coming. It always ached more when it rained.

The massage didn’t seem to be working, so she climbed out of bed and headed into the kitchen for aspirin. She’d learned the hard way that the longer she waited to take something, the worse it got, and it took twice as long for the pain to subside.

The bottle of aspirin was still on the kitchen counter where Corrine had left it. Between the stalker talk and the wine, her mother’s head had probably been on the edge of explosion. At least, that was the way she described it. Shaye dumped a couple of aspirin into her palm and tossed them back with a big gulp of water. Time to grab her laptop and head back to bed.

Then she heard a scraping noise outside.

She froze, trying to identify the source and location of the sound, but all she heard was the low rumble of distant thunder. She went back to her bedroom and grabbed her pistol, then systematically checked every window in the apartment. The streetlights were dim, and with the impending storm, no moonlight was available to improve visibility.

The street appeared quiet. No sign of movement, not even an automobile.

Then she heard the noise again.

This time she was certain it came from the courtyard between her apartment and the building next to hers. She grabbed a spotlight from her bedroom closet and placed her ear against the side door that led into the courtyard. It was quiet now, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t out there. The storm hadn’t moved in yet, so the air was still—no wind to blow things around and create the noise. And the only items contained in the courtyard were the trash cans for the building occupants and a tiny wrought iron table and two chairs that sat under a tree in front of the back wall of the courtyard.

She sat the floodlight on the floor next to the door, disarmed the alarm, and inched back the dead bolt. She turned the doorknob slowly, then pushed the door open a tiny bit and slid her foot against it to keep it from closing again. She switched her pistol to her right hand and reached down to pick up the spotlight with her left, then she counted to three and threw the door open.

She jumped out, clicked on the spotlight, and directed it down the breezeway toward the brick wall. The breezeway was empty, but twenty feet away, one of the trash cans moved. She trained her pistol on the cans. “I’ve got a weapon. Come out of there.”

The can rattled again and its shadow cast across the breezeway morphed as if something behind it had moved. Her finger tightened on the trigger and she felt her chest constrict. Her pulse beat in her throat and her temples, pounding like a jackhammer. She inched forward.