by Tami Hoag
He had readily confessed to all of it, going back to the sexual molestation of Vanessa Theriot—which he still didn’t grasp as having been anything so terrible. He hadn’t set out to hurt her. He had taken her a little gift in exchange for being able to touch her. He had only wanted to see if he would find it exciting, or discover whether maybe Dean Florette was right, maybe he was gay.
He didn’t really understand what sexuality meant. He only knew that he had been raised to believe being gay was shameful and wrong. His mother would be so disappointed in him. Kelvin Dutrow would disown him or send him off to military school, or both—or worse.
It had come as a complete shock to Cameron when the Theriot sexual assault made headlines and half the town had been up in arms. He had lived every day with the growing fear that he would be found out. And when Nora had let on that she knew, that fear had boiled over. He had shoved her that day out of fear as much as anger, and KJ had watched it happen. And then Cameron had to fear KJ. What if he told?
“It just breaks my heart, is all,” Annie murmured.
Nick slipped his arm around her and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her head to his chest.
“I know, baby,” he whispered, and kissed the top of her head.
Her heart broke for Cameron. Her heart broke for KJ, whose young life had been taken from him before he had any chance at all to live it. Her heart broke for Genevieve, who would have to live with all the mistakes she had made, after being pulled from the bayou when she would have gone from this world forever and ended her pain. Her heart broke for Nora Florette, who had, by some miracle, survived her ordeal, but who would be dealing with the effects of a traumatic brain injury for the rest of her life.
Her heart broke for Jojean Florette, who had buried one child and had a long, difficult road ahead with another. And for the Theriot family, and for Sharon Spicer . . .
There was more than enough tragedy to go around. And they weren’t to the end of it yet. Not by any means.
“Smith Pritchett announced today that Cameron will be tried as an adult,” she said.
“I heard. As you might imagine, Gus had some choice words.”
With Dutrow dead, Gus Noblier had agreed to temporarily step back into the role of sheriff until the situation could be sorted out.
“He’s as fond of Pritchett as ever,” Nick said. “‘Pompous, sanctimonious, grandstanding jackass,’ I believe he called him.”
“He’s too kind,” Annie grumbled.
Their preening peacock of a district attorney, Pritchett, was a man who had only become more entrenched and insufferable after every race for higher office he managed to lose.
“I don’t have any problem with the boy having to pay for the terrible things he did,” Annie said. “But in what universe is it right to equate a boy who sleeps with a teddy bear with hard-core felons? I can’t imagine Cameron toughing it out in a juvenile facility. Can you imagine that child surviving in Angola?”
“No,” Nick said on a sigh. “I wonder did I do him any favors pulling him out of the water that day.”
He remembered it as if it were a movie: diving into the murky water, searching frantically with his hands, being almost out of air as he grabbed hold of Cameron Spicer’s T-shirt. He had nearly pulled the shirt off and lost the boy. At the last possible second, he had caught the boy’s hand.
“But that’s not my question to ask,” he said. “I did what I had to do. We can only do what we think is right and hope the universe sorts itself out.”
“That’s uncharacteristically passive of you,” Annie said, looking up at him.
“Not at all. I dragged him out of the water and breathed life back into him. What more could I have done? We do what we can, ’Toinette. You wanna fight for that boy, you fight like a tigress. I expect no less.”
He smiled down at her. She was a force to be reckoned with, his wife. She had come into his life and had challenged him to be a better man. God only knew what she could do for Cameron Spicer.
“In the meantime,” he said, rising from the bench and drawing her with him. “Let’s go home, partner, and love our son, and raise him well. That’s what we can do. Raise our family and love each other.”
“How’d you get so smart?” Annie asked as they started back toward the parking lot.
“Me,” he said with a wink and a smile, “I married well.”
EPILOGUE
It’s not fancy,” Detective Broussard said, opening the door to the apartment. “But it’s homey, and the AC works.”
Genevieve walked in and looked around. To the right was a small galley kitchen with pale pink walls and a retro fifties-style refrigerator with a huge dancing alligator painted on the door that looked like the mascot from the elementary school. The clock on the wall was a plastic black cat with googly eyes and a tail that flicked back and forth with the passing seconds.
KJ’s kitten had somehow managed to find its way onto the counter and stretched up the wall to bat at the clock’s tail.
Straight ahead was the main living space dominated by a glass coffee table balanced on the back of a five-foot-long taxidermic alligator.
“That’s Alphonse,” the detective said, gesturing to the coffee table as she walked through the room. She pulled open French doors that accessed a little balcony overlooking the bayou. “He used to hang from the ceiling downstairs back when, until one of his wires broke and he swung down and knocked a tourist flat. Then I got him.”
“You lived here?” Genevieve asked, surprised.
“I grew up here.”
They were at the Corners, a boat landing/convenience store/café fifteen minutes outside of town. Genevieve had brought Clarice out here a few times to have the gumbo for lunch and to talk French with the owners, an older Cajun couple.
“Sos and Fanchon, they raised me,” Broussard said.
“Excuse me, Miss Gauthier? Where would you like your suitcases?”
Genevieve turned toward the deputy coming through the door, speechless for more reasons than one. He looked at her expectantly, like an eager young spaniel with a sweet face and big brown eyes, ready for her instruction.
Broussard pointed the way. “The bedroom is down that hall.”
“That’s a little awkward,” Genevieve remarked as the deputy disappeared.
“Why? Because he fished you out the bayou?”
“Yeah. Not my finest moment,” she confessed.
Annie Broussard shook her head, dismissing the notion. “He’s a deputy. That’s part of the job.”
“I’m just embarrassed, I guess.”
The detective gave her a long look. “Don’t be. You didn’t get to that place on a whim. You earned it the hard way.”
The deputy—they called him Young Prejean—had followed her at a distance as she walked away from Evangeline House that night, waiting to see where she might go. She’d gone to the park along the bayou, just a block away, and as the painkillers she’d taken had begun to numb her, she had walked right over the bank, into the water.
She didn’t remember much from that night, but she remembered Young Prejean carrying her out of the water and bending over her on the bank. She had wished at the time that he would’ve let her go. Now here she was, back to square one, relying on the kindness of strangers.
She was being offered this apartment to stay in and a job downstairs to tide her over until she could decide what she really wanted to do. She had the money from the GoFundMe account to help pay her medical bills. One of the local churches had picked up the expense of KJ’s funeral.
“Don’t think you don’t deserve it.”
“What?” she asked, coming back into real time.
“This chance,” Broussard said, leaning back against the balcony railing. “Don’t think you don’t deserve it, Genevieve. That’s not for you to decide. It
’s what you do with it that counts.”
“I’ve made so many mistakes,” Genevieve murmured. She smoothed her hands along the top of the railing and looked out at the water and the wilderness beyond. “One after the next. How many is too many?”
The detective said nothing as Young Prejean cut back through the apartment to go for another box of Genevieve’s meager belongings. When he was out the door, Annie said, “My mother came here when she was pregnant with me. She didn’t have anything or anyone. Sos and Fanchon took her in. They gave her a family—they gave me a family. I don’t know if my mom deserved that chance. But I’m awfully grateful she got it.”
“Where is she now?”
A sad smile turned the corners of her mouth. “She’s dead. She killed herself when I was nine. She didn’t have a Young Prejean there that day to save her.
“That was one mistake too many for her. But you already made that one and survived,” she said. “You’re getting another chance, Genevieve. Make it count—for KJ. Make it count for everyone willing to believe in you—whether you deserve it or not. Now is when you find out if they’re right.”
Genevieve took a deep breath and sighed at the weight of that. She hoped she would do a better job shouldering the burden this time. The difference this time would be that she wasn’t alone. That, she hoped, would make all the difference.
“No drugs, no drinking,” the detective said as she went back into the apartment. “And if you bring grief to these old people, I will drown you myself,” she promised, then offered a gentle smile. “But I don’t think that’s gonna happen. We wouldn’t be here if I did. I’m giving you the chance my mother didn’t give herself.”
“Thank you, Detective Broussard,” Genevieve said, scooping up KJ’s kitten and holding him close against her chest, immediately comforted by his instant purr.
“And you’d better start calling me Annie,” she said as they walked to the door. “You’re practically family now.”
For the first time in a very long time, Genevieve managed a smile. “I like the sound of that.”
“And you’d better get a name for this little fur ball. Your roommate should have a name, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Genevieve said, holding up the kitten she had given to her son for a birthday he would never have. Now all she had was the kitten, and the opportunity to try again, an incredible gift, as much as it frightened her. “I think I’ll name him Chance.”
“I think that’s perfect,” Annie said. “Go settle in. Come downstairs when you feel like it. I’ll introduce you.”
Genevieve watched her descend the stairs and then went to unpack to start her new life.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, there are people to thank for their patience, for their generosity, and for their support. First, a huge thank-you to Candra Seley, who several years ago now generously donated to the Challenge of the Americas fund-raiser for breast cancer research. Hers was the winning bid for a role in this story, a prize she gifted to her daughter-in-law, Jaime Blynn. Sorry it took so long! Thanks, also, to fellow author Pamela Samuels Young and to Craig and Judith Johnson (yes, that Craig Johnson, Longmire fans), for their generous contributions to the Writers’ Police Academy for cameo roles in this book. Craig and Judith’s adorable granddaughter, Lola Troiano, took their spot.
Thanks also to Karen Ross for her expertise. And to Tina Butler, who brought in the big guns to keep me going at the end when only my spirit was willing and my back was giving me the finger. We both know you cheat, and I am so grateful.
GLOSSARY OF CAJUN FRENCH
allons: let’s go
arrête: stop
bateau/bateaux (plural): a flat-bottomed boat
bébé: This means “baby” in traditional French, but the Cajun version is pronounced “beb” and is used like “babe,” as a term of endearment.
bon: good
c’est assez: that’s enough
c’est fou: that’s crazy
c’est sa couillon: that’s a fool
c’est tout: that’s all
c’est vrai: that’s true
cher: A term of endearment similar to “dear” or “sweetheart.” It is pronounced “sha.”
chérie: cherished, beloved
coonass: a mostly derogatory slang term for Cajun (depends on who’s saying it and why)
couillon: A stupid person, a fool. It’s pronounced “coo-yon.”
de rien: you’re welcome
fils de pute: son of a bitch
gris-gris: A curse, a spell. It’s actually a Haitian word.
Ici on parle français.: Here we speak French.
je t’aime: I love you
loup-garou: from Cajun folklore, a swamp-dwelling werewolf
mais: but; often used for emphasis with yes or no
mais non: but no
ma jolie fille: my pretty girl
maman: mother
merci beaucoup: thank you very much
merci Dieu: thank God
merde: shit
mon ami: my friend
mon coeur: my heart
mon Dieu: my God
oui: yes
pauvre bête: The traditional French translation would be an insult—“poor stupid.” The Cajun usage is an expression of pity, the equivalent of “poor thing.”
petit homme de mystère: little man of mystery
putain: This literally means “whore” but is used as “fuck.”
putain de merde: fuck this shit
s’il vous plâit: please
tante: aunt
T- or ’tite: Preceding a name it’s short for petite or ’tite, and denotes a nickname.
très bien: very good
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TAMI HOAG is the #1 international bestselling author of more than thirty books. There are more than forty million copies of her books in print in more than thirty languages. Renowned for combining thrilling plots with character-driven suspense, Hoag first hit the New York Times bestseller list with Night Sins, and each of her books since has been a bestseller. She lives in California.
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