“Come out or I’ll shoot.”

One of the cans swayed and a black-and-white cat jumped on top of it and let out a loud meow. She jumped back, and the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding came out in a whoosh.

“Damn it, cat. Are you trying to get shot?”

The cat sat and started cleaning its paw. Shaye shot it a disgusted look and hurried back inside. She locked the door, slid the dead bolt into place and leaned back against it, willing her pulse to slow. All that aggravation and stress over an alley cat.

If you were still living with Corrine, you’d probably be asleep.

She pushed herself away from the door and headed into the kitchen. To hell with sleep. If her mind worked better at night, then so be it. She’d work at night and catch a nap in the daytime. What was the use of being your own boss if you couldn’t make the rules?

###

From the rooftop across the street, he watched as she slammed the door to her apartment shut. He lowered the night-vision goggles and frowned. He’d been right. She was no interior decorator. He’d thought he recognized her when he saw her at the house. It had taken him several hours to locate the old copy of New Orleans Magazine that had the picture he remembered. The girl in the photo was younger than the woman he’d seen with Emma, but he was certain it was the same person.

Shaye Archer.

Once he had a name, it took no time to find out everything he needed to know about Shaye’s life, her family, and most importantly, her new business venture. He’d almost tired of clicking on links when he came across her website. He’d smirked when he read the home page. Private investigator. What in the world were poor little rich debutantes going to think up next to waste everyone’s time? The thought of that inexperienced, frail-looking girl getting the better of him was laughable.

But she was messing up his game.

He wanted Emma alone and frightened. Allies and others who would bolster her confidence and keep her from falling apart would interfere with his fun. No way was he allowing a stupid twit like Shaye Archer to detract from his pleasure. Something would have to be done, but first, he had to make sure he knew where to find her when he was ready to strike.

When he saw the address on the website, he figured she was using the apartment for both her living quarters and her office, but he needed to be sure.

It had been a simple matter to put fish behind the trash cans in the breezeway, then drop fishy liquid from the freezer bag along the sidewalk to where he’d spotted the cat. Then he’d climbed atop the building across the street and waited. He’d wondered, at first, if he’d miscalculated, because lights were on in the apartment. She might be working late, but that wouldn’t indicate she was living there. But when she’d burst outside barefoot and wearing gym shorts and a tank, he knew she’d been in bed.

With every light in the apartment on.

Apparently, Miss Archer was afraid of the dark.

Chapter Nine

Jackson slipped his cell phone into his pocket and looked across the desk at Vincent. So far, he’d spent the morning at the very dangerous job of completing paperwork and fetching Vincent coffee. He could almost feel himself aging in place. “We got anything up right now?” he asked.

“Paperwork from that drug bust last week,” Vincent said. “Since you had the better view of everything that went down, I figure you need to do the write-up.”

Translation: Because I’m lazy, I waited out back while you busted in and did all the hard work. Because I’m super lazy, I think you should do all the paperwork as well.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “I started it already. Got about thirty minutes or so on it to finish. If that’s all, I’m going to take off for an hour or so. I got to talk with my landlord about some maintenance problems.”

Vincent barely glanced at him. “Sure. Take whatever you need. If we get a call, I’ll let you know.”

Jackson struggled to keep the disgusted look off his face. They weren’t likely to get a call unless no one else was available or Vincent downed a case of energy drinks and a bucketful of courage. The man apparently intended to spend the rest of his career cruising into retirement, and if he had his way, Jackson would be sitting in the passenger’s seat, snoozing along.

At 10:00 a.m., the drive across the French Quarter was a fairly easy one. He located a parking spot half a block away from the café he was looking for and headed up the street. It was a tiny place, maybe fifteen tables total, and had a surprising amount of natural light from front and side windows. At a table in the back corner, Shaye was easy to spot. There were only two other patrons, an elderly couple sitting near the front. Otherwise, the place was empty.

Shaye was watching as he came in, and he gave her a nod and headed for her table. As he slid into the chair across from her, he noticed the huge coffee cup with a single packet of artificial sweetener in front of him.

“Black, right?” Shaye asked.

He poured the sweetener into the cup and stirred. “Good memory.”

“It’s not a difficult order.”

“No, but most people wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Touché.” He knew Shaye wasn’t most people. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but only a few minutes of exposure to the young PI had fascinated him. Had him wondering what made someone like Shaye Archer tick. When he’d gotten back to the police station, he’d pulled out his personal cell phone and searched the Internet for information on her. He’d expected to find a Facebook page full of pictures with college girlfriends and family. He’d been shocked when the first five pages were full of news articles about Shaye and her missing past.

He’d spent two hours reading through the stories and finally risked searching police records, even though he knew if Vincent caught him, he’d crawl all the way up his ass to Alaska. If Vincent never heard the name Shaye Archer again, it would probably be too soon. Jackson doubted his so-called superior officer had made the connection between Shaye and the girl Detective Beaumont had pulled off the street years ago, even though he was working at the precinct at that time. But then these days, Vincent didn’t seem to notice much besides the clock hitting five.

If the news articles had been disturbing, the police reports had been downright horrifying. Even now, sitting across from her, he marveled that she could sit there so normal, so sane.

So beautiful.

He took a drink of his coffee. Where the hell had that come from?

“You said you wanted to talk,” he said, forcing all thoughts of anything but business out of his mind.

Shaye nodded. “A couple of things have happened. Emma isn’t interested in being mocked again, but you said to call if I got something.”

“Definitely. What’s going on?”

Shaye told him about Emma’s car trouble and the returned scarf.

“Do you think the skater could identify the man?” he asked.

Shaye opened her phone and showed Jackson a picture of David Grange. “I tracked him down and showed him this photo. Obviously, the man who had the scarf wasn’t David, but the skater said it looked enough like him that they could be related.”

Jackson blew out a breath. “Which supports Emma’s insane claim that she saw her husband in her house. With only moonlight, looking through that tiny hole in the wall, and terrified, I can see why that’s the first thing she thought.”

“That’s not all. Yesterday, I met her at the house to have a look around.” Shaye pulled a card out of her purse and slid it across the table. “He left this on her front steps while we were inside. It’s a birthday card—one that she’d thrown away.”