Stranger, Seducer, Protector. Joanna Wayne

      “I will if it gets worse. Now tell me about the Florida Panhandle. Is the sand really as soft and sugar-white as they say?”

      “Absolutely.” Caitlyn raved on, excitement and happiness radiating from her voice. Jacinth only half listened, her mind already jumping ahead to the promised visit from a homicide detective and the CSU unit.

      And hopefully a visit from the plumber. She needed a shower in the worst way.

      As soon as they’d said their goodbyes, Jacinth threw her legs over the side of the bed, tiptoed to the window and stared out at the dew-kissed lawn. The St. Augustine grass was still green and growing in spite of the scattering of leaves that had fallen from the aged live oaks that grew on her and the Findleys’ property.

      Her gaze moved to the carriage house where Nick had said he’d be if she needed anything at all. A tinge of awareness titillated her senses, just as it had when he’d leaned in so close last night.

      It was a schoolgirl response brought on by over-wrought emotions. She did not get giddy over men she barely knew, no matter how helpful and sexy.

      At any rate, his promise to be there if she needed him apparently didn’t extend to the daylight hours. His truck was gone from the driveway. If he was working, he’d definitely gotten an early start.

      She needed to, as well. But first, caffeine. The stairs creaked and groaned as she shuffled down them. When she’d first moved into the house, she’d reacted to every ghostly rasp and moan, thinking someone was behind her.

      She thought of them as the whispered secrets of the Villarés who’d lived and died in the house for generations. At least she had until last night. Now she wondered if the walls were merely preparing to drop another body part on her.

      And this after the building inspector she’d hired had assured her the foundation was sound and that with loving care and timely repairs the house might stand another hundred and fifty years.

      Sin indulged in a kind of purring yowl and walked to her empty feeding dish as Jacinth stepped into the kitchen.

      “I know. Time for breakfast. As if you’d let me forget. My grandmother obviously spoiled you rotten.”

      From the cabinet Jacinth took a can of the fishy-smelling canned food that Sin loved, opened it and filled the cat’s bowl. She gave her fresh water, as well, and then started a full pot of coffee. She had a feeling she’d need it before the day was over.

      Her thoughts went back to her grandmother as the enticing odor of brewing coffee filled the cozy kitchen. Marie Villaré had never been a part of Jacinth’s life. Jacinth didn’t remember one birthday card or phone call from the woman. Her name was never mentioned by Jacinth’s mother. Yet the inheritance that Marie Villaré had left Jacinth and Caitlyn served as a golden binding, reaching from beyond the grave to connect Jacinth with her Villaré ancestors and especially with her grandmother.

      Yet numerous questions still went unanswered.

      Had Marie ever wondered about her granddaughters? Why had she made no attempt to contact them even after their mother had died of cancer? If she had no interest in knowing them, why will them this house?

      Had Jacinth’s mother left New Orleans because of her husband’s murder, or had Marie Villaré done something to cause Sophie to leave Louisiana and never return or even want to speak of the city or this house again?

      The phone rang as Jacinth poured her coffee, jerking her back to the present. A drop of hot liquid spilled over her fingers.

      “I’m Detective Ron Greene,” said the voice on the line as soon as she’d identified herself. “I hear you had a little excitement at your place last night.”

      “Shock might be a better word.”

      “Yeah. I’m reading the police report now. Some of the details are a little fuzzy. I’ll need to talk to you as soon as possible. Do you have any problem with me coming over this morning?”

      “No. I’m available anytime.”

      “Then I’m on my way. The Crime Scene Unit will get there at approximately the same time.”

      “That will be fine.”

      The sooner they got this over with the better. Grabbing her coffee cup, Jacinth headed back upstairs to get dressed.

      She hesitated a few seconds in front of the closed door to her crime-scene bathroom. Maybe this old house was cursed after all and had stealthily lured Jacinth and Caitlyn into its web of evil.

      And maybe Jacinth had been sniffing too much plaster.

      She shook off the mood and hurried to get dressed for her own reality CSI.

      NICK TOOK THE hard plastic chair in front of the pane of thick glass. As always, this place, with its institutional gray walls, armed and aloof guards and acrid smell of cleansers and sweat, created a hard knot in the depths of his gut.

      He’d been ten years old when he’d come here the first time. It was also the first time since he was a first grader that he’d laid eyes on the father he’d been told was out of county on a special mission for his country.

      His boyhood superhero instantly dissolved into a flesh-and-blood disillusionment, leaving a hole the size of a bowling ball in his heart.

      Nick hadn’t said a word to the stranger staring back at him. Finally his mother dragged him back to their old Chevy and he’d thrown up all the way home, soaking the backseat with vomit. His mother had cried hysterically and just kept driving.

      He hadn’t returned to the prison until he was sixteen years old, two months after his mother had remarried and moved to Pennsylvania, leaving him to live with his paternal grandparents while he finished high school.

      The second visit to the prison had been at the urging of his grandfather. No pressure, Gramps had promised. Nick only had to go and make up his own mind if he wanted to engage. If not, they’d leave and nothing would be lost except the morning.

      Nick hadn’t walked away and the sluggish, agonizing process of building a relationship with his father had begun that day.

      Nick watched a woman walk across the floor of the visitor center flanked by two preschoolers. The girl’s short ponytail was tied with a bright pink ribbon that matched her shirt. A worn teddy bear with one arm missing was clutched in her right hand.

      The boy was tugging at his mother’s skirt, as if trying to slow down her progress across the scuffed tile floor. An action figure dangled from his fingers.

      Nick swallowed hard, aching for the kids. If they were here to visit their father, they had a tough road in front of them.

      A slight tapping on the window got Nick’s attention. His father smiled broadly as if they were meeting for lunch or to go to a Saints game. Nick saw past the smile to the dark bags around his father’s sunken eyes, the pall of his complexion and the swollen jowls.

      The chemo was doing a number on him.

      Nick picked up the phone in front of him. “How you doing, Dad?”

      “I’m hanging in there.”

      “Are they taking care of you?”

      “Yep. Dr. Singleton makes sure of that.”

      Tom Singleton was his oncologist, the one making the decisions on Elton Bruno’s medical care. Nick had talked to him by phone a couple of times and checked out his reputation on the internet. He was a well-respected doctor.

      That didn’t make it any easier for Nick to watch his father go through the treatments knowing they might be in vain and that his father could die in this prison. Knowing he might die waiting for a parole that wouldn’t come for a crime Nick was certain his father hadn’t committed.

      “What’s going on with you?” Elton asked. “Any interesting new cases?”

      “One.