Even though David had never had a problem remembering the day his son had been born, most other birthdays and anniversaries eluded him. But that kind of memory lapse was history. He would never forget the day Christian died.

Now, alone in his apartment, he had to admit that subconsciously he'd known the anniversary was coming, even though he hadn't strung the words together in his head. He didn't have it marked on a mental calendar, where he would have crossed out each day as it drew near.

Maybe that would have been better. Maybe then he would have been able to deal with it when it came knocking. As it was, his avoidance of the approaching date had left him wide open.

It had been less than two days since Strata Luna had visited headquarters and put a curse on him. During that time, they'd scoured the city for Flora, hoping to get her statement, but she'd been elusive, always one step ahead of them.

And then there was Elise. So damn worried about the curse. To David, her concern and preoccupation made about as much sense as fretting over an alien invasion. And if by some remote chance curses were real? Well, he'd been cursed years ago. What was one more?

By nine p.m. he was experiencing a strong sense of foreboding. A smothering claustrophobia that wasn't external, that had nothing to do with his apartment.

He was the cage. He was the dark pit.

By nine thirty he felt himself breaking.

Blond hair floating in the bathtub.

Blond boy. Blond baby.

Pull him out. Turn him over.

Blue lips.

Blue hands.

Little blue hands.

David's throat tightened. His eyes burned.

He'd been doing so well, but it had been a trick. He saw that now. He'd just buried it. Put it away because he couldn't bear to see it. His shrink had been right. And now he'd looked away for a minute, and when he looked back, there it was. Right there. Right in front of him.

Floating blond hair.

His life. His fucked, fucked life.

How could a human tolerate so much anguish? It didn't seem possible.

I should be dead.

He should explode, or his heart should just quit beating.

I have to get out of here.

He had to get out of his own head, had to somehow escape his thoughts, because if he didn't, he was afraid he might get stuck like this. And the pain would never stop.

Had to run. Run away.

His heart pounded. His hands trembled as he changed into navy blue shorts and a gray T-shirt.

The dark streets were welcoming.

Fragrant.

Humid.

Heat from the day clung to the asphalt.

This was familiar. This was something he could do.

Run.

Forget.

The rhythmic slap of his jogging shoes gradually lulled him. Relaxed him. Soothed him.

Put him in a trance.

How far could he go?

Into tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

He imagined himself running on the surface of a giant globe. Running around the entire world. Never stopping. He wouldn't need food or water or sleep.

He was a machine.

And machines didn't think. Machines didn't feel.

His feet slapped the street.

May twelfth. May twelfth. May twelfth.

Don't think. Don't think. Don t think.

Goofer dust around the door

Sprinkled in the bed

Wake up in the morning

Find yourself dead.

May twelfth. May twelfth. May twelfth.

I watch him.

From my hiding place, I see him coming closer. Running down the middle of the street. Weaving.

Breathing hard.

His shirt is saturated with sweat, his hair dripping. He looks distraught, confused. A little out of his head, maybe. But that isn't a bad thing.

Poor David. Poor baby.

Let me make you better.

I can stop the pain.

I can make it all go away…

David ran for two hours.

He didn't remember thinking about returning to his apartment, but suddenly he was there, on the front steps of Mary of the Angels.

Beside him, the bushes rustled. He caught a whiff of something that smelled faintly of piss, and looked up to see Flora standing there.

"David," she whispered in a small, trembly voice.

She looked sad. Full of pain and grief.

"We've been trying to find you," he said.

Her face lit up, then immediately dimmed. "For my statement. I can't talk about that now. And I don't know anything."

"Small, seemingly trivial things can sometimes help solve a case."

"I can't talk about Enrique. He was like a brother to me. We went to grade school together. I know you didn't want to see me, but…" She put a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.

He held open the door. They stepped into the foyer and went up the stairs.

Inside his apartment, they clung to each other. Just stood there and hung on. Pretty soon clothes were dropping to the floor and they were moving toward the bedroom.

"Make me stop thinking," Flora begged.

Little blue lips.

Little blue hands.

"Just for a little while," she said. "I want to forget. I have to forget."

They tumbled across the bed and he plunged inside her.

Deep and dark.

Forget. Forget. Forget.

Each stroke took him closer to oblivion.

David was asleep and Flora didn't want to wake him. She followed her trail of clothes and quickly dressed in the living room while David's cat, Isobel, sat on the couch, eyeing her with suspicion. Since Enrique's murder, Flora had been staying at Strata Luna's. She'd promised she'd be home by midnight. It was past three o'clock.

Flora didn't like the way Strata Luna was suddenly acting as if she owned her. The woman had always treated her like a favorite, but Enrique was the one she'd lavished attention on.

Flora checked her cell phone.

Damn. Three calls from Strata Luna, one less than an hour ago.

She slipped out of the apartment, the door closing with a loud click. In the center of the hall, she passed through a cold spot and stopped.

"Enrique?"

She waited.

She listened.

The chill faded. What was that smell? A little herbal. A little earthy. A little like the cologne Enrique wore…

Flora had always wanted to see a ghost, and now that Enrique was dead she hoped he would come back to visit. But he wouldn't be hanging out in Mary of the Angels, she told herself as she continued down the hall. Not Enrique, who'd been scared to death of the place.

Outside, Savannah was quiet except for the sound of a street sweeper.

Flora got in her car, slamming the door.

The smell from the hallway was stronger now. Almost overpowering.

"Enrique?" Flora asked loudly. "Is that you?"

A shadow fell across her from the backseat. A gloved hand pressed to her mouth, something sharp against her throat.

Flora reached behind her with both hands, grabbing for eyes.

The sharp object sank into her flesh. One long slice, and she could no longer breathe, no longer make a sound. She felt a blanket of heat on her chest as blood soaked the cotton of her top. At the same time, her hands and fingers turned to ice.

She tried to see who had cut her throat, but she couldn't make her eyes work. And it really didn't matter anymore anyway. Nothing really mattered. Not Strata Luna, or Black Tupelo. Not even David Gould.

In movies, dying people always whispered the killer's name. That wasn't right, Flora now realized. Because in that last minute you've already moved on. You suddenly understand that the world is just a bunch of silly people doing silly things____________________