Say You Love Me. Rita Herron

her eyes and folded one bony arm beneath the other. Then she slid her hands into her armpits, hunched her knees up to her belly and curled into a ball.

      Like a fleck of dust that no one could see, she’d stay there for hours. If she didn’t make a sound, they’d think she’d gone. Then she’d be safe.

      Free from the man. Free from the hideous monsters in the bayou.

      The door screeched open. The scent of whiskey floated toward her. Thunder rumbled. She caught her breath. Tried to hold it.

      Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Be invisible and they’ll go away. But the floor creaked. The wooden boards splintered. And she felt his hand on her arm.

      He had her….

      Britta heaved for air, sweating, disoriented. This memory was only one of many. The beginning. So many more afterward….

      She had to banish them.

      She stood, trembling, then moved to stare out the window into the starless night. It wasn’t possible that this killer knew her. Or knew what had happened years ago. How she’d escaped. How she’d survived. How she’d lived on the streets like an animal.

      No one knew but her.

      More panic yanked at her and she rushed back to her bedroom and dug under the mattress for her journal. Inside it, she wrote all her private thoughts. Her own secret desires and confessions.

      Her fingers finally connected with the thick velvet binding, and she tugged it out, flipping through the pages to make certain it was intact. She nearly collapsed on the bed when she realized nothing was missing. Her thoughts were still private.

      A voice sounded through the intercom. “Britta? Are you in there?”

      Jean-Paul Dubois. He was the last person she’d tell. He’d show her no mercy. He’d take her to jail, lock her up and throw away the key. No, he could never know her secret desires or get near her heart.

      She’d die before she’d let that happen.

      THERE HAD ALREADY been one woman’s body found today. Jean-Paul held his breath as he waited on Britta to answer the intercom at her door. He hoped to hell there wasn’t going to be another.

      Dammit, why wasn’t she answering? He’d raced over after her call. St. Charles Street had been unusually calm for Mardi Gras season. Various flags of kings and queens of Carnival waved from the palatial mansions, all symbols of the royalty: the professional businessmen and politicians who resided in the city, ones who funded the celebrations, rebuilt the city and revitalized the traditions in the Big Easy after the last hurricane. Although some businesses and people had given up and moved on, others had rallied to resurrect the historical district and the culture.

      But here on Bourbon Street, the decorations boasted of sex, voodoo, black magic and the live-and-let-live attitude of the tourists seeking a good time, a stiff drink and a good lay—anonymously of course. Which only added to the crime.

      Anger mounted inside him. Bon Dieu. Why the hell had Britta Berger chosen to live on Bourbon Street? Why not in one of the sleek condos on Decatur? Just working at the raunchy magazine set her up for trouble. But to live in the heart of it…She might as well hang a damn sign on her body flagging her as an open target.

      Did she enjoy living on the edge?

      He didn’t. He wanted the town back to normal, back to the New Orleans he loved.

      The image of her tied to a bed, naked, with a lancet embedded in her heart, flashed in his head and he grimaced as he punched the buzzer again.

      “If you don’t answer, Miss Berger, I’m going to break down this damn door.”

      “I’m sorry,” she finally said in a trembling voice. “Come on up.”

      A click sounded and he opened the wrought-iron gate in front of the door, then entered. Her office lay to the right, a dark staircase ahead. He took the steps two at a time. When he reached Britta’s apartment door, he gave three quick raps. Seconds later, she opened the door, the chain still intact.

      He arched a brow. “Are you all right?”

      “Yes. I’m sorry, just shaken.” She unlocked the door and stepped back, clutching a long robe to her throat.

      “You said someone broke in?” He examined the door, but didn’t notice any damage. “I don’t see evidence of forced entry.”

      “He was here.” She folded her arms across her waist, the movement making her look shaken and vulnerable. “In my bedroom.”

      He scanned the living room. Simple furnishings. Contemporary. A butter-yellow leather sofa accessorized by a few red and green throw pillows. A TV. Desk. Her laptop.

      Perhaps the man climbed to her balcony and sneaked in through the patio window or the French doors. “Did he disturb anything?”

      She inhaled, fiddling with her hands. “The bedroom. He went through my drawers. Then he left me something.”

      He followed her to her bedroom. Although the paint had faded in the hall, colorful artwork from the locals decorated the wall: scenes of a historic church, the bayou at sunset, the river. A collection of macabre Mardi Gras masks shaped like alligators and sea monsters occupied a decorative shelf, while gris-gris and beads she’d probably bought from the market dangled from hooks to create an eye-catching corner. Oddly, there were no personal photos in sight.

      The bedroom appeared the same. A contemporary iron bed. A dark crimson comforter. A gray velvet lounging chair that looked decadent by the window. A few copies of Naked Desires were displayed on a bookshelf along with some self-help books. Slaying Personal Demons. Overcoming Phobias and Fears. Black Magic. The Crocodile Myths.

      Another collection of Mardi Gras masks covered the walls. Some were beautiful, exotic, while others displayed the dark side of New Orleans—the voodoo priestess, the devil, a swamp creature.

      It was almost as if everything in her apartment had been purchased in the city. As if she’d left any hint of a past behind. Or did the collection of masks symbolize her life? Was she a woman in disguise? Perhaps she had an assortment of wigs in her closet to change her appearance.

      “He pawed through my lingerie,” she said.

      Jean-Paul spied the opened drawers, the sheer fabrics—all sexy, risqué. A pair of black and red thongs hung from one corner while a hot-pink camisole dangled from the edge of the dresser.

      She walked over to the bed and leaned against the corner. “And he left me this.”

      A crimson red lace teddy lay in the center of her bed. His pulse clamored. It was almost identical to the one left at the murder scene that morning.

      She recognized the similarity, too.

      “This one didn’t belong to you?” he asked.

      She shook her head no.

      Jesus. She had a right to be rattled. Leaving a note at work raised a red flag, but invading her home and leaving the same type of underwear he’d left with his victim was way more personal.

      “He also left me this note.” Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward him.

      He read it in silence. I always have one eye on you. You can’t run forever.

      Instincts warned him Britta Berger was in danger. And that they might be dealing with a serial killer who was only getting started. “Did you notice anyone watching you today? A stranger who seemed suspicious?”

      She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “While I was eating dinner at a café in the Market, I noticed a man with a camera taking pictures of me from the square.”

      His fingers tightened on the note. “Did you recognize him?”

      “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

      “You’re sure he was photographing you?”