Don't Say a Word. Rita Herron

possibility needled him. The fact that Swafford and Kendra might have run off together. That still could have happened, then the man discovered who she was and killed her. Swafford could have also faked his death and disappeared so he wouldn’t get caught. “Did Kendra have proof of his corruption?”

      The lieutenant watched him with hooded eyes. “Not that we know of. But she had a theory.”

      Antwaun ground his teeth, tiring of the game. “Which was?”

      One black eyebrow rose a fraction. “You don’t know?”

      Antwaun rolled his fingers into fists to rein in the anger churning in his gut. He’d been interrogated in the military behind enemy lines before and had handled it with aplomb. He had to get through this the same way. “No.”

      The lieutenant’s eyes stabbed through him like lasers trying to cut out the truth he thought hidden behind Antwaun’s steel mask. “Kendra Yates was not only investigating Swafford, but also dirty cops.”

      In spite of his control, the air whooshed from his chest in a painful rush. Fuck.

      Their rendezvous took on an entirely new light. The seduction. The mind-blowing sex. The pillow talk.

      Hell, he had thought he was in control, but he was a fool. She’d been using him all along, hadn’t fallen for him at all. Had she believed that he was on Swafford’s payroll? That he worked for the mob? That he might have killed Swafford? That he was dirty?

      His gaze swung back to his superior as he mentally replayed their conversations. Kendra must have had notes on him. Notes that pertained to her story. Notes on things he’d said that might have been misinterpreted.

      Holy hell.

      They obviously thought he’d killed her because of something in her notes. Something that made it look as if he were on the take.

      ESMERALDA PORTER, aka the Cat Lady, felt the tremble of the earth and the stench of death in the air. The whisper of danger rustled in the air as the winds rattled dry leaves from the weeping willow trees and sent them raining down onto the parched earth. In another place, it would have been a musical sound, but here the eerie, grating threads sounded like the devil’s voice, announcing his presence.

      She searched the backwoods from her porch. The rumors of the devil in the bayou taunted her—legends of faceless monsters that roamed the land. Some wore smiles to masquerade their evil souls. Damned into the darkness, kissed by the devil’s breath, they licked quietly at the blood on their fingertips as they ate away at the vestiges of man’s humanity. Those had clawed their way through the dirt and debris of their own graves to rise again as if the devil had pushed them upward through the ground with spiny fingers. They preyed on the weak, leaving tattered bodies and hearts in their vicious wake like the swamp gators after a nightly feeding, jagged teeth crunching on bone.

      Evil cannot be destroyed. Its black unbending heart beats on, old with rage, its tendrils of anger as choking as the twisted hands of lust that consumes man’s soul.

      But the battle wasn’t over. She summoned the magic to help fight off the evil. After all, she was a traiteur, a healer, a soldier for good, though not a warrior herself.

      Satan must have found a victim. A new soul to possess and carry out his vile will. Another source to spread pain and anger. She smelled his victory, a coppery scent like blood.

      Her black cat, Midnight, slithered onto the stone hearth and yowled to the heavens, and her tabby, Persimmon, bellowed in a long-winded refrain of terror.

      “Come here, ’tite chatte,” she murmured, scooping up the little cat in her lap. The wind chimes hanging from the porch of her wood-frame house trembled, though, tinkling and clattering so hard one of the glass angels shattered.

      She pulled her black shawl around her shoulders, urging her arthritic body and mental will not to fail her. Though she’d been blind for years now, she saw things through the darkness. Living in a world without sight had honed her other senses, especially her sense of smell.

      She knew each feline by its odor, as well as the unique tone of its meow, the texture as she ran a fingertip across its nose. Gorgon, an orange-striped male, climbed on top of the organ and peered out the window as if planting himself as guard against the danger waiting in the bayou.

      A danger that marched closer with every passing minute.

      She mentally flipped through the recipes from her book of spells, searching for one to fend off the bad coming. Not that she had power, for the magic lay in the cats.

      Once upon a time, she had been a nonbeliever. But her life had taken a drastic turn into misery, and she had learned to listen to the spirits.

      Her dead husband spoke to her sometimes, crying out his rage at being taken so early. Yet his demise had come from his own wrongdoings. And he had taken more secrets to his grave. Secrets that might have offered comfort and closure to some while tormenting others with the twisted viciousness of his crimes.

      His transgressions were plenty. Not only to her but to humanity. And he was burning in eternity for them now.

      She’d feared her grandson had fallen to the same demon. And now in death, he lingered, caught between realms. Begging for a chance to redeem his soul and go to heaven.

      Titan, a fat gray cat who’d come to her during the latest storm of violence in the bayou, pawed the floor and snarled. Suddenly the earth trembled again, more violently this time, and the scent of graveyard dust filled her nostrils.

      The cats slithered from their posts, tails swishing, ears perked, listening as they formed a circle. In unison, they began to scratch at the wooden floor, hissing to the heavens as they united to protect her.

      But another woman needed protecting. Lex had told her so. The image of a mangled face and body materialized in her blind mind. The woman was nearby. In danger.

      Someone had tried to kill her before. They’d stolen her life already. Her memory. Her face.

      And they would try to finish her off if someone didn’t save her….

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CRYSTAL HAD CONTEMPLATED her loss of memory and her past so many times that she thought she was going crazy. Dr. Pace had informed her that since she had suffered a head trauma, the past might be erased permanently. The emotional trauma compounded the problem.

      But after sitting with the child tonight, Crystal felt amazingly calmer. A sense of accomplishment washed over her, offering hope that she might return to a normal life someday, a welcome reprieve from the endless hours of dwelling on her own misfortune and the mystery of her missing life. Another memory had also begun to surface—one of her surrounded by small children. Feeding them. Singing to them. Helping them.

      Back in her room, she flipped on the television set. It was time she connected with the real world again. And maybe she’d find a posting from someone in search of her…

      She listened to the news coverage about the war in Iraq and the upcoming local Memorial Day celebrations. Then a special report flashed on the screen and caused her to sit upright.

      “Earlier today, police discovered the partial body of a local reporter named Kendra Yates. Her severed hand was found in the bayou but so far, the remainder of the woman’s body has not been uncovered.”

      Crystal’s heart raced. Kendra Yates…Why did that name seem familiar?

      The reporter continued, “Sources tell us that Miss Yates was investigating the New Orleans Police Department on charges of corruption, and that tonight Officer Antwaun Dubois was brought in for questioning. An arrest is imminent in the alleged homicide.”

      Crystal frowned as the camera panned a dark wooded area where they had obviously found the woman’s severed hand, then moved back to the steps of the precinct where a mob had gathered and the police were escorting a man inside. For a second, her heart sputtered as if she recognized him. Several reporters yelled questions and accusations