Submission. Tori Carrington

why she was there and where she needed to go next. But right now, part of the reason was that she didn’t have anywhere to go next.

      Her head jerked up, a chill running up the backs of her arms. She had the odd sensation that she was being watched. She scanned the windows of the houses and apartments squashed together on the narrow street. Not a face or a moving curtain among them.

      She regained her bearings and turned around, going back the way she’d come, toward the spot where the taxi had let her off near the French Quarter.

      Where should she go next?

      It was said that twins shared a special connection, but she’d never really believed it. Claire had. She’d spent many a conversation trying to convince Molly that she knew how she felt, what she was thinking. But while Claire may have had some sort of insight into her thoughts and feelings, Molly had never understood the same of her sister. When they were younger, Claire had spent the majority of her time outdoors—usually with boys—while Molly had stayed indoors, taking care of the house while their mother worked or reading in the room she shared with her twin. When they were in high school, Claire had dated the football captain and had gone to all the “in” parties, while Molly had studied hard, graduating at the top of their class. She’d been offered scholarships at three different universities and had picked the one closest to home for practical reasons.

      No, she’d never felt any sort of paranormal connection to her twin sister…until two and a half weeks ago.

      Molly caught herself rubbing her neck. She’d known the instant Claire had died. Had felt the knife that had taken her twin’s life as surely as if the cold blade had been pressed against her own throat. Had experienced her sister’s horror, dread, then felt the life slipping from her body just as the blood had flowed from her wound.

      Every minute of every day Molly felt her twin’s ghost haunting her, demanding that she find her killer.

      And Molly intended to do exactly that. Either with or without Detective Chevalier’s help.

      2

      I PULLED THE OLD CHEVY to the curb outside Hotel Josephine in the old section of the French Quarter. The place had become familiar to me lately. Not because I’d ever stayed there but because just over two weeks ago another body had shown up in one of the rooms. A body that had looked remarkably like the woman I’d just left standing in the street outside my apartment.

      I got out of the car, grabbed my hat from the front seat, then stood staring at the four-story structure not unlike countless others in the Quarter. It was probably at least two centuries old—and looked it.

      A uniformed NOPD officer who’d arrived on the scene before me hiked up his pants as I approached the door.

      “What do we got?” I asked.

      “Thirty-C. Room 2B.”

      Damn. The thirty indicated homicide. The C indicated homicide by cutting, which meant this victim might very well be connected to the one before.

      The pretty hotel owner, Josie Villefranche, was standing near the front desk, her honey-colored skin looking pale. Not that I could blame her. I’d heard business had taken a nosedive after the first unsolved murder. Now that there was a second, Lord only knew how she’d manage to keep afloat.

      “Miss Villefranche,” I said.

      “Detective Chevalier.”

      I knew she kept an illegal sawed-off shotgun behind the front desk, which probably explained why she was partial to standing near it at all times.

      Since I couldn’t ask questions until I actually had them to ask, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. Another uniformed officer stood outside the door to 2B, guarding it.

      “John,” I said, recognizing him.

      “Alan.”

      I stepped into the doorway and stared inside the room. And for the second time that day I saw a ghost. Because the victim stretched across the bed, her head hanging over the foot, was in the same position and had the same throat wound as Claire Laraway.

      I’d never been one to buy into coincidence. If it looked like a crawfish, smelled like a crawfish and tasted like a crawfish…well, it was a goddamn crawfish.

      I rubbed my closed eyelids and took a deep breath, then stepped farther into the room, pushing aside the similarities between the last victim and this one and instead focusing on the differences. Number one, I knew this victim. Her name was Frederique Arkart and she was a streetwalker, not a new resident to the city. Number two, she was African-American. I slowly crouched down, taking in the way her eyes seemed to stare at a point I couldn’t see. For all intents and purposes, she couldn’t see it, either, but it was apparent that she’d been looking at something—or rather someone—while her life was being taken away from her. I blindly reached for a rubber glove in the pocket of my trench coat and put it on my right hand. Number three, the wounds were different, I found as I lightly probed the victim’s neck. Laraway’s had been made with a sharp instrument, while the blade used here had been duller, making a sloppy job of it.

      I took off the glove and sat crouched for long minutes, staring at the floor in front of me.

      New Orleans ranked pretty high in the nation when it came to murder statistics. I knew this not because I read the papers but because I was kept busier than most other detectives in bigger cities. I’d seen more than my share of murders and had no fewer than a dozen actively open cases sitting on my desk at any one time, with a countless number of others that had been marked cold cases and filed away.

      “Looks familiar.”

      I craned my neck to look at the chief of forensics, Steven Chan, then stood up. “Yeah.”

      “You think we’re dealing with the same killer?” He put his box down in a corner where it was least likely there would be any trace evidence.

      “That’s your job, not mine.”

      “Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that.”

      He was right. Usually I would be telling him that it looked as though the wounds were different somehow. But I thought it was a good idea if I was a little more careful nowadays. I’d arrested the wrong man in the Laraway murder and didn’t want to be placed in that position again anytime soon. Especially considering that my career already hung by a very thin thread.

      “Let me know what you come up with,” I said. “I’m going down to talk to the owner.”

      MOLLY SAT AT A BACK table at Tujague’s and stared at her watch. It was a quarter after eleven and Detective Chevalier was late.

      Either that or he’d never planned to come.

      “Decide yet?” the young waiter asked.

      “I’m waiting for someone,” she said again.

      He smiled at her in a way that said he knew she was waiting but he’d approached her to see if she’d given up and decided to eat anyway.

      She pulled a menu in front of her.

      A cordially shouted greeting drew her attention toward the door. She was mildly surprised to find Alan Chevalier stepping inside, his overcoat as wrinkled as it had been earlier, holding his hat as he shook hands with the portly man behind the bar—apparently the issuer of the hearty welcome.

      Molly was both glad and nervous that he’d decided to come. The mix of reactions intrigued her. His being there meant he might include her in the investigation, or at the very least keep her informed on his progress.

      Her gaze mingled with his across the already crowded dining room and she swallowed hard, aware now, as she had been earlier, of the strange chemistry that seemed to exist between them.

      His being there also meant that he might feel the same pull.

      It took him a few moments to make it to the table. She