Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

the man’s arrogant, disinterested expression for just one moment.

      “Look,” Patterson was saying, “I know she was important to you, but I have other, more pressing cases. If we find anything, we’ll act on it.”

      Santos jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. “You son of a bitch, you’re not even trying. The only way you’re going to get something, is if the killer waltzes in here and confesses.”

      The detective folded his arms across his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “It happens.”

      Jacobs put his hand on Santos’s arm, as if sensing how close to violence he was, then shot his fellow officer a narrow-eyed glance. “Victor, we are trying. I promise you. But there’s nothing for us to go on. I told you, this guy was smart.”

      “So you’re just going to let him go free? He’s out there. Don’t you care, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

      “Yeah, it does. I hate it. And so does Patterson. But all we can do is follow the leads we have and wait.”

      Santos shook his head. “Wait? What do you—”

      “He’ll do it again,” Patterson interrupted dismissively, returning to the seat behind his desk. “He’ll do it again, and maybe he’ll make a mistake. And then we’ll get him.”

      Santos stared at the detective, disgust and hatred roiling inside him. “Why bust your asses on this, the guy’s only killing hookers. Right?” He fisted his fingers. “You think she was nothing. You think she was just a nobody hooker, so her murder doesn’t matter. Well, it does matter.” Santos took a step toward Patterson’s desk. “She was my mother, you bastard. I care. I give a shit.”

      “Victor—” Jacobs caught his arm “—come on. I’ll buy you a Coke.”

      Santos jerked his arm free of the cop’s grasp, not taking his gaze from Patterson’s. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to find out who did this. Do you understand? I’m going to find out who killed my mother, and I’m going to make him pay.”

      The detective made a sound of annoyed exasperation. “What can you do, Victor? You’re a kid.” He shook his head. “You’ll end up getting yourself killed. Leave the police work to us.”

      Santos bristled at both the man’s words and tone. “I would leave it to you, if you were doing anything.”

      The detective’s jaw tightened, all traces of understanding gone from his expression. “Look, I’ve had it with you. We’re doing all we can, now beat it. I’ve got work to.”

      “No problem, Detective.” Santos took a step closer to the officer’s desk, feeling like his equal, no longer intimidated by the man’s size, his position. The feeling was heady, empowering. Suddenly, he understood what it was to be a man instead of a boy. “But remember this, I don’t know how or when, but I’m going to find the bastard who killed her, and I’m going to make him pay.” He placed his hands on the desk, his gaze still unflinching on the other man’s. “And that’s a promise, Detective Patterson.”

Part 3 Glory

       Chapter 8

       New Orleans, Louisiana 1974

      To seven-year-old Glory Alexandra St. Germaine, the world was both a magical and frightening place. A place filled with everything a girl could want: beautiful dresses with lace, ribbons and bows; fine dolls with silky hair that she could brush; riding lessons and her own pony; real china tea sets for the parties she gave in the gazebo, and anything else she might point to and say she desired.

      Her daddy was a part of that world, the most magical and wonderful thing of all. When she was with him, she was certain nothing ugly or unhappy could touch her. With her daddy, she felt safe and so special—like she was the most special girl ever. He called her his precious poppet, and although she thought the name too babyish for a soonto-be third-grader and complained whenever he called her that in front of other people, secretly she liked it.

      Her mother never called her by anything but her given names.

      Glory shifted on the hard wooden chair, her bottom numb from sitting so long in the corner. Her corner. The bad-girl corner.

      Glory sighed and stubbed the toe of her mary jane against the gleaming wooden floor, careful not to make a scuff. Her mother would inspect the area after releasing Glory from her punishment, just to make sure she hadn’t been up to mischief during her penance. After all, her time in the corner was to be spent on prayer and self-reflection. Her mother had told her that at least a million times. “Glory Alexandra St. Germaine,” her mother would say, “you sit in that corner and think about what you’ve done. You sit there and think about what the Lord expects from His good little girls.”

      Glory sighed again. Other mothers called their daughters sweetheart or darling or love. She had heard them. Glory drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory, trying to recall even one time her mother had called her by one of those sweet names.

      As always, she drew a blank.

       Because her mother didn’t love her.

      Glory brought her knees to her chest and laid her head against them. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could close out her thoughts as easily, wishing she could shut out the truth. But she couldn’t, and her thoughts made her feel afraid. And sad. They changed her world from a wonderful, magical place, to one that was dark and confusing. The one that frightened.

      Many times she had tried to reassure herself that, of course, her mother loved her. Hope St. Germaine was simply a different kind of mama, one who didn’t like to hold or be held, one who believed discipline was more important than affection.

      But Glory didn’t believe her own assurances, deep in her heart she knew what was true, no matter how much it hurt.

      Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked against them. Why didn’t her mother love her? What had she done to displease her? She tried to be a good girl, she tried to be everything her mother wanted her to be. But, somehow, no matter how hard she tried, she always fell short. She either laughed too loudly or too much. She ran when her mother wanted her to walk, sang when her mother wanted prayer. Even when pleasing other people, she disappointed her mother.

      Glory sighed again. Her mother thought wanting others to like her, letting them do things for her, was wicked. But Glory didn’t try to do that. With others, she got her way with nothing more than a smile; with others, she won affection without even trying.

      Glory dropped her feet to the floor, longing to get off her chair and run and play. She loved to laugh. She loved to sing and dance and skip, her hair flying behind her. Mama said showing off that way was wicked, too. She said that wanting to be the center of attention was not what the Lord expected of His children.

      Glory tried so hard to remember that, but sometimes she forgot. Like today. She squeezed her fingers into fists. Why couldn’t she remember, the way her mama wanted her to?

      A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away. At least her mother would be up to collect her soon. She could see by the gathering shadows that it was getting near dinnertime, and her mama’s punishments always ended in time for Glory to take part in the evening meal.

      Her stomach growled at the thought of food, and she rubbed it, her mouth watering for the toasted cheese sandwiches Cook had prepared for lunch. The sandwiches she had missed because of her bad, wicked behavior.

      “Mama,” Glory called. “Please, may I come out? I’ll be good, I promise.”

      Silence answered her. She bit down on her lip, so hungry her tummy hurt. She longed to suck on a finger, but her mother had caught her at that once and punished her again. Glory wrapped her arms around herself, struggling to deny the urge. Unclean, she reminded herself. Sucking on flesh was wicked, unclean behavior.

      She heard the key in the lock and turned expectantly.