Rita Herron - Say You Love Me

But if she did, he’d ask more questions. Want to know more about her and why this psycho had decided to stalk her.

She’d thought today’s note had to do with the magazine. But what if it had something to do with her past?

D-day—the day she’d died and started a new life.

No, it was impossible.

Maybe she should just pick up and run again. She could start over. Find another job. A new name. A new city.

But the face of the young woman who’d died rose to haunt her. She was so young. Hadn’t deserved to be left in the bayou for the mosquitoes, snakes and gators to feast upon.

Memories of the night she’d fled into the bayou rushed back. She’d been dirty, hungry, terrified and so thirsty she’d hallucinated. She’d seen the devil and other wild, mysterious creatures in the marshy swampland.

And now, thirteen years later, another one roamed the streets….

She couldn’t run this time.

Not with the dead girl’s face etched in her mind permanently. It would stay with her no matter where she went. And so would her guilt and the memory of her sins.

The only way to escape them was to pay her penance.

Maybe by helping to find this woman’s killer, she could finally receive forgiveness.

LOUP GAROU—the swamp devil.

Jean-Paul grimaced. The local PD had already dubbed their newest killer with the name. The fabled creature lived on in the minds of the Cajuns as real as the day the legend started.

Only a devil could leave a woman the way this sicko had—helpless, dead, exposed in the heart of the untamed bayou.

Even though it was late evening, Jean-Paul met his captain and partner at the ME’s office. When he showed the photograph to his partner, Carson, and his lieutenant, Phelps, cursed.

“I’m sending it to forensics, although I doubt we’ll find prints,” Jean-Paul said. “Maybe they can trace the photocopy paper.”

Phelps frowned. “The son of a bitch is bragging about the murder.”

“Did he really expect that magazine to print this?” Carson asked.

Jean-Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. But for some reason, he wanted Britta Berger to see his handiwork.”

“Because of her column?” Phelps asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe there’s a personal connection.” Jean-Paul recalled her reaction to the photo. She’d definitely been shaken. And he sensed she didn’t like cops.

He’d run a background check on her to find out the reason.

“Maybe he knows her,” Phelps suggested.

“Or wants to,” Carson added.

Phelps nodded. “That’s possible. If so, Britta Berger might be in danger.”

A frisson of unease rippled through Dubois, heating his blood. He’d arrived at the same conclusion on the way back to the precinct. What if this psycho didn’t stop at one victim? The symbols he’d left reeked of a ritualistic killing.

The ME, Dr. Charles, appeared in his office and waved them back to the crypt. “Have you identified our Jane Doe yet?”

Phelps snorted. “No, we’re searching all the national databases but so far, no hits.”

“We’re checking the universities and clubs, too,” Carson added.

Jean-Paul sighed, already tired and the investigation was only getting started. If the vic was an out-of-towner who’d come for Mardi Gras or to cash in on the heightened prostitute business during the festival, the identification process would be more difficult.

Phelps cut to the chase. “What did you find, Dr. Charles? Anything that might help us?”

“Nothing conclusive yet. Except that the girl didn’t die from the chest wounds. I suspect she might have been poisoned.”

“What kind of poison?” Jean-Paul asked.

“I don’t know. I’m still running tests.” Charles indicated one of the containers from his handiwork. “So far, her stomach contents don’t reveal traces of a poison so she didn’t ingest one. I didn’t find any injection marks on her body, either.”

“Keep looking,” Phelps said.

“Any evidence of rape or a date rape drug?” Carson asked.

Charles shook his head. “Not so far.”

“Which meant she agreed to have sex, then things got out of hand,” Jean-Paul surmised. “Once we ID her, we’ll start with her boyfriends, lovers. All her male acquaintances.”

Jean-Paul’s cell phone trilled and he unpocketed it and hit the connect button. “Detective Dubois.”

“Detective…this is Britta Berger.”

Alarm shot through him. Her voice sounded shaky, frightened. Had the killer contacted her again? “What is it, Miss Berger?”

“Someone broke into my place tonight,” she blurted. “I…think it might have been the man who killed that woman.”

Jean-Paul’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Keep the door locked and don’t open it for anyone.” His pulse kicked up a notch. “I’ll be right there.”

BRITTA TWISTED HER fingers into the thin fabric of her skirt.

Stay calm, she reminded herself. You don’t have to tell him about the past. This killer has nothing to do with that. It’s impossible.

Still, she paced to the window and searched the busy street below. Was her intruder out there, watching?

Chilled by the thought, she wrapped a small throw around her shoulders. Then she poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it, trying to settle her nerves. But every whistle of the wind and every screech from the streets below alarmed her. Every man…posed a danger.

Dammit. She thought she’d left her fears behind. That she could finally look toward a future. But now this psycho wanted to take her peace of mind from her.

Why? What had she done to him?

She dragged in a breath and reminded herself she was being paranoid. She had her cell phone. And she knew how to fight.

Logic kicked in, along with the guts that had kept her alive. Even if this madman knew where she worked, he didn’t necessarily know where she lived. She’d been meticulous about not listing her number or including her home address on any paperwork.

Anyone experienced with a computer could find her, though. And if he’d watched her office, he could have easily seen her climb the stairs to her apartment.

She could almost hear the killer taunting her in a sing-songy voice. See him sinking the spear into her heart. Feel the cold sharp blade puncture her insides. Then see the blood oozing out. Her nightmares rose again with icy fingers from the grave clawing at her. The years fell away as if it were yesterday. As if she was there again. Except this time she was even younger.

She was five years old. So small, so tiny that if she tried hard enough, she could make herself disappear. Then no one could find her.

And the monsters couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Footsteps sounded outside. Loud voices. A man’s dark booming laughter.

No!!!!!! Not again.

She crawled beneath the bed, closed 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.”