Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

"I want to see her."

They sat in the parlor at Belle Rivière, Kenner, Danjermond, Laurel, and Caroline. An incongruous scene. The parlor with its soft pink walls and quietly elegant furnishings, a place of serenity and comfort, filled with brittle tension and people who had gathered to talk of a brutal, heinous crime. Men for whom this death was a part of their business, and family who couldn't reconcile the idea of one of their own being torn from their lives.

The sound of Mama Pearl weeping drifted in from the kitchen, breaking the silence that hung as Kenner and Danjermond exchanged a look. Laurel set her jaw and rose from the camelback sofa to pace.

Caroline sat at the other end of the sofa. Her aura of power and control had been snuffed out, doused by a tidal wave of shock and grief, leaving her powerless. A queen who had suddenly been stripped of her potency. For the first time since her brother had died she seemed completely at a loss, so stunned by the news that she wasn't even sure this was really happening. But of course it was. Savannah had been found murdered. That was the terrible reality.

Lifting a crumpled tissue to her eyes, Caroline looked up at Laurel, who paced the width of the Brussels carpet like a soldier, shoulders back, chin up. She had been this way when her daddy had died, as well, full of stubborn denial and anger. Ten years old, demanding she be taken to him, insisting that he wasn't dead.

She could remember too clearly the rage, the fear, the heartbreak, Vivian telling the girls to cry softly into their hankies like little ladies. Caroline had gone up to Savannah's room with them, and they had all lain on the bed and sobbed their hearts out together.

"I want to see her," Laurel said again.

Caroline caught her eye and shook her head sadly, reproachfully. "Laurel, darlin', don't…"

Laurel jerked away, clinging to her stubbornness like a life preserver. After her initial reaction to the news Kenner had brought, she had slammed the door on her grief, bottling it up, saving it for later. For now, she had to hang tough, she had to keep her head… or lose her mind altogether.

Kenner rose from the armchair, restless, unnerved by what he'd seen this morning out on Pony Bayou. If he lived to be a hundred, his sleep would forever be plagued by Annie Gerrard and Savannah Chandler, their bodies carved up like biology experiments, rotted and bloated by the effects of death and the merciless southern sun.

"I don't think that would be a very good idea," he murmured.

Laurel wheeled on him, ears pinned, eyes flashing fire. "You didn't think she was in any danger, either. You didn't think she would be anyplace but in bed with one of a hundred men," she said bitterly, stalking him across the carpet. Toe to toe with him, she glared up into his lean, hard face and narrow eyes. "Pardon me if I don't have a whole helluva lot of faith in what you think, Sheriff."

He glanced away from her, unable to meet the accusation in her eyes. His gaze landed on a graceful side table that held framed photographs of the Chandler girls, Savannah's senior year high school picture catching his eye. He had a daughter nearly that age.

"Next of kin has to make a positive ID," Laurel said, grasping hold of practicality for an excuse. She wasn't feeling practical. Desperation was like a wild thing inside her. She had to see her sister now, sooner than now. Maybe someone had made a mistake. Maybe it wasn't really her. Maybe Savannah wasn't really dead. God, she couldn't be dead. They had parted so angrily, left so many things unsaid. It just couldn't be true-

"We already have an ID, Laurel," Danjermond said, his smooth, low voice penetrating her thoughts. He sat in Caroline's throne, his masculine grace perfectly at home draped over rose damask. He met her gaze evenly. "Your stepfather came down to the funeral parlor."

He could just as well have slapped her. The idea of Ross Leighton's being the first of them to see Savannah appalled her. The bastard had dealt Savannah enough degradation in her life. He shouldn't have been allowed anywhere near her in her death. Fresh hot tears welled in Laurel's eyes, and she turned her back on the district attorney.

"Sheriff Kenner and I realize the grief you've been dealt, Laurel," he said, "but time is of the essence here if we're to catch your sister's murderer. We need to talk about this necklace you found. You were a prosecutor. You understand, don't you, Laurel?"

Yes, she understood. Business. Danjermond and Kenner would take her sister's death and boil it down to facts and figures. It was their job. It had been her job once too.

"The necklace was Savannah's," she said flatly. "She never took it off. This morning it was in my pocketbook."

"Do you have any idea how it might have gotten there?"

"I expect someone put it in there, but I didn't see it happen."

"You think the killer put it there?"

Killer. Her stomach churned at the word, sending sour bile up the back of her throat. She choked it down and snatched a quick, hard breath, rubbing a hand at the base of her throat. "No one else would have gotten it off Savannah. It meant the world to her. She would never have willingly taken it off."

Danjermond rose and came around to face her, his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers. His expression was one she had seen in the courtroom a hundred times, a look she had honed to perfection herself-subtle disbelief, designed to rattle a witness. "You think the murderer took it off her and somehow slipped it into your handbag without your knowledge-for what purpose?"

The rush of anger was welcome. It distracted her, focused her attention on something she could affect the outcome of-an argument. She went to the Sheraton table and with jerky, angry movements, dug through the purse she had left there, tossing out Kleenex, Life Savers, a tampon. In one handful she scooped out the heart-shaped earring and the butterfly necklace and dumped them on a silver tray, then swung around to face Danjermond again. "For the same reason he made certain I found these."

The idea shook her to the core. A murderer, a psychopath had singled her out to send his trophies to. Why? To taunt, to challenge? She didn't want the challenge. She hadn't come here to be sucked into something twisted and sinister. The thought that someone was trying to do that made her want to cut and run as far as she could go, as fast as she could get there.

Danjermond pulled a slim gold pen out of his jacket pocket and poked at the items like a scientist, frowning. Kenner's eyes caught on the butterfly necklace, and he swore long and colorfully.

He shouldered Danjermond aside and bent to stare at the evidence Laurel Chandler had been carrying around in her handbag. "That was Annie Gerrard's. Tony gave it to her. He asked about it when he picked up her personal effects." Hard and sharp, his gaze cut to Laurel. "Goddammit, why didn't you bring this to me?"

"Why would I?" Laurel snapped back. "I found it in an envelope on the seat of my car. Why would I have assumed a serial killer had sent it to me? Why would I think you would do anything about it but laugh in my face?"

"Where'd you find the earring?" he demanded, knowing in his gut it belonged to another victim. The killer had kept a souvenir from each.

"I found it on the hall table. Savannah told me she brought it in from my car." She felt violated as she thought of it. The animal who had killed her sister, who had killed at least half a dozen women, had let himself into her car, touched things she touched, left behind mementos of his crimes. A shudder passed through her at the idea, chilling her to the marrow.

Kenner straightened, still swearing half under his breath. He couldn't believe this was happening in his parish. He ruled with an iron fist and an eagle eye. How could this have happened? He felt like a cleanliness fanatic who had turned a light on only to find roaches in his kitchen.