by Rita Herron
Of course, she wasn’t a looker like Britta Berger.
No, she had knobby knees, wore an A-cup and needed extra cover-up to mask the zits that plagued her when she got nervous.
What was she going to have to do to get Teddy’s attention? Dance naked in the streets?
She licked her fingers and tried to comb down her mousy brown hair. The stupid stuff reacted to this god-awful heat by exploding into a frizzy mop. Finally she applied lip gloss that tasted like wild berries and yanked her jeans lower on her hips to showcase her flat belly and new bellybutton ring, a small blue and yellow butterfly.
All twisted inside from fear that Teddy would ignore her again almost made her nauseous. Even though she wasn’t sophisticated or trendy like Britta Berger, she’d show Teddy she could be fun. She fingered the bright silver bracelets she’d bought, ones similar to Britta Berger’s. She liked the way they clanged on her arm when she moved. Maybe she could even buy a push-up bra and jam her boobs up high so she’d have cleavage.
Heck, why was she worried about Britta Berger? She was too old and sophisticated to go for a guy like Teddy anyway; she could have half the men in town.
But what if she decided to play with Teddy just because she enjoyed the attention? She might tease him. Lead him on. Keep him from falling for her.
Just like the sorority girls at school had when she’d wanted that boy Danny. Damn bimbettes.
Once she’d tried to be their friends. Tried to fit in and join them. But they’d laughed at her and blackballed her.
They didn’t bother her anymore, though. Not since she’d pulled that switchblade and threatened to carve out their eyes.
No one was ever going to keep her from getting what she wanted again.
And if the Berger woman got in the way, she’d take care of her, too, just like she had the others.
CHAPTER NINE
ANOTHER HOUR TICKED by. Another hour the killer had to toy with his victim.
Another hour and no answers.
Frustration nagged at Jean-Paul. They still hadn’t located or identified a second victim, and the police department had pooled as much manpower as they could spare to search the bayou. Carson was checking out Swain’s alibi and his place.
The need to be out there looking himself made Jean-Paul antsy, but when he’d informed the lieutenant that Britta Berger was not who she claimed to be, Phelps had ordered him to stick with the woman. So far, she was their only connection to the swamp devil.
Banning her from his mind until he could confront her, he thumbed through the preliminary information they’d gathered so far on Elvira Erickson. According to the detectives who’d canvassed her apartment complex, victim one had been a loner. Had not had a steady boyfriend or brought anyone home. Her phone records indicated only a few local calls, one to a man named Shack, who he was almost certain was her pimp.
Jean-Paul had already talked to his brother Antwaun. He was beating the streets now in search of the guy.
A knock sounded at the door and he braced himself as Britta entered his office. She looked disheveled. Her glasses were slightly crooked, a sunhat dangled from one hand and a shoulder bag had been slung over her arm.
His temper teetered on the surface. It was time she talked.
But he zeroed in on her elbow and noted fresh scrapes and the fact that her right eye looked swollen. His question died on his lips.
“What happened to you?” Alarmed, he strode toward her, took the bag and sunhat and placed them on the desk, then gently took her arms and examined them. Her other elbow was bruised as well as her hands, and faint scratches marked her chin.
She shrugged. “I fell off the curb this morning.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Try again.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Really? Just like your real name is Britta Berger?”
Her face blanched. “What makes you think that it’s not?”
“Because I visited the real woman’s grave this morning.”
She turned away but he caught her hand. “Tell me the truth, damnit.”
“About my name or this morning?”
“Both.”
She glanced down at where their hands were joined. “Ezra Cortain and his crew staged a protest at the magazine.”
“Do they know about the killer’s note to you?”
“No. And I certainly didn’t share the information with them.”
Jean-Paul’s pulse hammered. “Then what happened?”
“They chased me. I tried to blend into the crowd but when I went to cross the street, someone pushed me.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“No, I was too busy trying to scramble away from the car flying toward me.”
“Bon Dieu. Do you need to see a doctor?”
Her chin quivered as she gazed into his eyes, emotions glittering before she drew a curtain down over them. “No, I’m fine now. But whoever pushed me, tried to grab my shoulder bag. I don’t know if they wanted money or the letters.”
Alarm bells clamored in Jean-Paul’s head. “The letters from your column?”
She nodded. “Why would someone want them?”
“Because they might lead us to the killer.”
* * *
BRITTA GLANCED AWAY from Jean-Paul’s probing eyes and the questions.
Desperate, she focused on the map on his wall, then a smaller one which highlighted the bayou. Various pushpins protruded from different areas, which she assumed were ones where they had targeted search parties. Black Bayou was one of them.
Just the thought of the area made her shudder.
“You should have called me.” He jerked up the phone. “Listen, send a team to check out the protest at Naked Desires. Miss Berger was accosted there this morning. Charge them with violating a peaceful protest if you have to but disband them.”
Her gaze flew back to his. “That will probably cause even more trouble.”
“Reverend Cortain is trouble. He gives religion a bad name.” Jean-Paul rapped his knuckles on his desk and she noticed the open folders spread before him.
“Speaking of names,” he said, his thick eyebrows pulling together in a frown. “Why don’t you tell me your real one and why you faked your identity.”
A surge of panic raced through her. “I can’t believe you checked into me.”
Temper flared in his brown eyes and Britta took a step backward. He looked mad as hell, as if he wanted to shake her.
“Come on, Britta, I’m a detective. You knew I was going to check you out. You’re part of a homicide investigation.”
Hurt swelled inside her, although she hated herself for the emotion. For hoping that there might be one decent man alive. One who’d take her at face value. Trust her. Not hurt her.
Not question her past. Not care that she’d been living a lie.
But it was obvious Jean-Paul Dubois was not that man. He’d do whatever it took to solve his case. Even expose her and put her in danger. Or jail….
“I thought the investigation was about finding this killer, not me. So why should it matter to you who I am?” Tears pricked at her eyelids, although she blinked them away. She would not cry in front of him. Not in front of any man, ever again.
“It is.” He stalked toward her. “But if you lied to me about one thing, maybe you’re lying about the note. Maybe you know this killer and you came here to play some lurid cat and mouse game to distract me.”
Her heart pounded. “That’s ridiculous. I called you because I wanted to help that woman. Now I realize my mistake.”
“If you really want to help, then be honest, Britta.”
“I told you the truth about how I found that note and picture. I wish he hadn’t sent it to me, but he did.”
“If that’s true, the killer is connecting with you, not me or anyone else. That means he knows you—or knew you from the past.”
She closed her eyes, vying for composure. She couldn’t look into his and see her lies reflected or
the truth of his words. Doing so meant shedding the armor that protected her. Admitting that she’d never escaped at all.
That the people who’d chased her into the bayou had not given up their thirst for revenge. That she’d never be free of them.
And that she might be the reason this man was murdering innocent women.
That kind of guilt would be unbearable.
Her heart racing, she turned to run. By the time her hand closed around the doorknob, Jean-Paul was on her, his chest pressed against hers. His breath brushed her neck.
“You can’t run forever, Britta.” His voice reverberated in her ear. The killer’s words. Jean-Paul’s. “Now, tell me who you are.”
His grip tightened on her arm and the world slipped into a black fog. Men chasing her. The swampland sucking at her feet. The alligators spitting and announcing their attack. The vile stench of a hand closing over her mouth….
A cold clamminess pervaded her and she began to shake with fear and anger. “Let me go.”
“Talk to me,” he growled.
“I was in foster care,” she admitted raggedly. “My foster parents and sister died in an accident. I took their daughter’s name because I liked it, because I missed them.” Her voice broke. “Because I wanted to be part of their family.”
His breath bathed her neck, hot and husky. “Then why run? Is someone after you now? An old boyfriend or lover?”
“No…I told you there’s no one,” she said in an anguished whisper.
She was running because she had to.
Time swept her back as if it was yesterday.
She had to escape, had to get out of the bayou. The snakes slithered toward her. The darkness engulfed her. The stench of blood and death. Of them closing in like hound dogs on a blood hunt.
Weeds and bugs clawed at her arms and legs. Vines trapped her, their tendrils wrapping around her legs like snakes. Darkness blinded her. She had to keep moving or she would die.
Panic gave her strength. She swung her elbow up as hard as she could and jammed it into the man’s chest. A grunt followed and he released her, but his icy hands touched her and she tore herself from his clutches.
The room swirled around her. Lights suddenly flashed, shimmering through the leafy trees. No, they weren’t trees. She was in a room. Brightly lit. The murky darkness lifted slightly, and strangers’ faces broke through the fog. A tall man. Another in a cop’s uniform.
They’d found her and were going to arrest her.
No! She had to keep running.
Her feet felt heavy, and the room spun. She needed water. A reprieve from the heat. She stumbled forward,clutching at the walls to guide her. A voice called out her name, telling her to stop. But she couldn’t. Finally, a hall. She leaned against the wall, confused. Where was she? Not in the bayou? A building somewhere. Bright lights glared in her eyes like a white tunnel.
The man called her name again and she scrambled away from the wall, feeling her way again until she fell through an opening….
Seconds later, reality slowly returned. She’d stumbled into a bathroom. Heaving for air, she fumbled for the sink and turned on the water. The cold spray felt heavenly against her face. She cupped her hand, let the water fill it, then sucked it down her parched throat. Again and again, until the dizziness passed.
Her hands shook as she felt for a paper towel. Suddenly one was thrust into her hand. She opened her eyes and the room came into focus. Her reflection taunted her from the mirror.
Her eyes looked puffy and red, one was swollen, black and blue. Her hair was disheveled and a crazy wildness lit her eyes.
She wasn’t alone.
Behind her, standing with his arms folded, his expression stony and silent, stood Jean-Paul Dubois.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL’S PULSE raced.
Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Britta had been traumatized and was terrified of something. He’d witnessed similar reactions—some from war veterans, others after Katrina.
What exactly had happened to her?
Something to do with her past. His demands obviously triggered her reaction.
His physical touch made it worse.
The thought of a man violating her twisted his insides. How young had she been? Was that the reason she’d been in foster care? The reason she’d changed her name?
God, what a mess.
His brain continued to search for answers, for a way to understand. But he couldn’t push her now. And if she’d changed her name to escape an abusive boyfriend, husband or stalker, she’d taken a chance on exposing her identity by calling him. In fact, she’d been courageous.
But if the killer was the man after her, then he’d found her anyway. So why wouldn’t she confide in him? She couldn’t possibly want to protect the son of a bitch.
Unless the man she was running from had been a cop.
The truth could be anywhere in between.
Tears stained her eyes and the black eye he’d thought he’d detected looked stark without her makeup in the bright fluorescent light. He inhaled sharply, struggling to control his emotions. He hated himself for pushing her into this.
And if his touch had done it…hell, he felt like a bastard.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Britta. Are you okay now?”
She swallowed, although her body betrayed her by trembling.
He jerked off his jacket and eased it around her shoulders, careful not to alarm her or crowd her space. Her head still bowed, she tugged it around her as if she wanted to crawl inside the garment and disappear forever.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You mean you’re not going to tell me,” he said, forcing himself to remain in place instead of reaching for her.
Her pain-filled eyes rose to meet his, a silent plea in the depths. “Please,” she said softly. “It’s not important. I…came to help you. I brought the letters. That’s all I can give you.”
The anguish in her voice nagged at him. He had to let the matter drop.
For now.
But he would find out what had happened to her. Why one minute she was strong and defiant, and the next—she looked as if she’d gone through hell and barely lived to tell about it.
He had to earn her trust. But doing so would be a monumental job, especially since she didn’t trust anyone.
Maybe she never had.
Or maybe the ones she had trusted, the ones who should have taken care of her, had hurt her the most.
* * *
BRITTA FELT EXPOSED, vulnerable, raw. And she didn’t like it.
Jean-Paul Dubois had seen too much already.
She had to get the situation back under control. “We should get to those letters.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Jean-Paul’s eyes probed hers. “I can get a team to sort through them.”
“No, I…want to help.” She fidgeted with her hair, then slid her glasses back on. She needed them, used them to hide behind. “I need to know if I missed something so it doesn’t happen again.”
He nodded. “Take a few minutes. I’ll be in my office.”
She turned away from him and reached inside her bag for her compact. But he lingered for a moment, watching, studying her. Waiting to see if she’d explain herself.
But she couldn’t.
Finally disappointment flared in his expression. He strode out the door. She leaned against the sink and closed her eyes, willing away the nausea that had gripped her earlier.
God knows what Jean-Paul Dubois thought of her now. She’d acted like a lunatic. Not that she cared about his opinion. He was just a man.
Another one she could live without.
Then why did she feel so bereft and alone? Why had she ached to let him hold her and make the pain go away?
Mortified at the thought, she stared at her reflection. The bruises, the dark circles, the tormented eyes. The disguise was gone and in its place the raw girl
who lay beneath had been exposed. The little girl who’d tried to make herself disappear, to be invisible. The little girl without a home. A family. The woman so desperate she’d taken someone else’s name.
Jean-Paul had seen her, as well.
Furious at her weakness, she washed her face, then carefully reapplied her makeup. Cover-up for the bruises. Powder for her pale cheeks. Although nothing could help the puffy eyes except rest. And she didn’t foresee sleep in the near future.
Not until the swamp devil was caught.
She clutched her purse, contemplating what to do next. She should go back to her apartment and pack. She’d leave R.J. a note; tell him to hire someone else for her column. If the killer was after her, maybe he’d leave town, too. She could find a new place to hide. A new name.
Start over.
Suddenly loud shouts erupted outside the bathroom. Feet pounded in the hallway. She rushed to the door, opened it and stepped into the doorway. A middle-aged couple stood beside Jean-Paul outside his office, the man shouting questions. The woman buried her face into her hands, sobbing.
Jean-Paul called them by name—the Ericksons.
Britta’s chest squeezed with compassion for the dead girl’s parents. She couldn’t run. She had to help them find their daughter’s killer.
Even if it meant putting herself in danger.
Not wanting to intrude on their grief, she inched into the corner, giving Jean-Paul privacy to console the couple. But she watched through the glass window of his office, mesmerized by his gentle voice and the way he calmed them. Her feelings for Jean-Paul Dubois were growing. It was bad enough that she was attracted to the man, but now she actually admired him and liked him.
A loud voice bellowed behind her. An officer yanked a woman dressed in spiked heels, a flaming sequined skirt and enormous fake breasts toward a chair.
Jean-Paul’s brother, Antwaun.
“I don’t have to talk to you pigs,” the woman snarled.
“Shut up and sit down, Candy. We just want to ask you some questions.”