Read Stop Me for Free Online Page B

“We’re closing in ten minutes.”
    Twisting around, she glanced up at him. With her thoughts so mired in death and evil, his narrow shoulders and pasty face reminded her of the vampire librarian in a novel she’d read, The Historian, which did nothing to calm her.
    After a deep breath, she managed an acknowledging nod. “I’m going,” she said. There was nothing here, anyway, except the depressing story of a man who, like her, had lost most of the things that made life good.
    Before getting up, however, she took a final look through the films she’d just perused. And then she saw it. An article she’d somehow missed while scanning headlines for references to Romain Fornier: Man Writes Victim’s Name in Blood.
    She read it quickly, with an overwhelming sense of urgency.
    Most people know the name of Adele Fornier. We’ve seen her picture on TV.
    Searched for her. Loved her, even as strangers. And now we mourn her. When she was taken from her own street more than three weeks ago and disappeared without a 32

    trace, we had hopes of seeing her safely returned to her father. Instead her body was found March 2nd in a park restroom.
    There was more, but it was a recap of what she’d read. She skimmed over the text until she reached the last paragraph:
    There is much about the crime we don’t know. The police are keeping a tight lid on the case so that they have a better chance of apprehending the murderer. The father has begged for our discretion, as well. But, according to the man who found her, there is one chilling detail he will never forget: her name written on the wall above her—in her own blood.
    The hair on the back of Jasmine’s neck rose as she stared at that last sentence, but her mind rejected what she read. Writing in blood was what forensic psychologists called a signature—some unnecessary or added flourish while committing a crime—and it was as unique to the perpetrator as choice of victim or method of murder. Was it possible that Kimberly’s kidnapper and this man, this Francis Moreau, had the same signature?
    It had to be possible. Francis Moreau was dead by Fornier’s hand. But the man who’d sent her that package was alive as of four or five days ago….
    “Ma’am, we’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.” It was the vampire librarian again, and this time his voice was impatient.
    Jasmine stood and edged away from him. In her current state of mind, she was unwilling to let a stranger get too close. But she knew her imagination was running away with her. He only wanted her to leave so he could go home. He didn’t realize that, for some kids, Christmas might not be all about Santa this year.
    The more Jasmine thought about it, the more she wanted to speak to Romain Fornier.
    After returning from the library, she spent three hours in the lobby of her hotel
    —before the bar downstairs got too busy—searching the Internet for information on him, but came up empty. A few of the articles she’d seen in past issues of the Times Picayune showed up. And there were other Romain Forniers—a musician and a Jet-Skier and someone who appeared to be a fairly famous French painter. But that was it. Even LexisNexis, to which she had paid access, yielded no clue as to Romain’s current whereabouts.
    But she doubted he’d left southern Louisiana. He’d been born here, grown up here, married here, and he’d come back here after his service in the military.
    She tried directory assistance for Mamou, but there were no Forniers. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though. With all the publicity surrounding the trial, it was very likely he had an unlisted number. Or maybe he was living with someone else. Even if he wasn’t there, maybe he had family in the area who could tell her more….
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    When she Googled the town, she found a summary that estimated the population in June of 2005 to be 3,400. Numbers had probably dropped since then, unless a lot of hurricane refugees had chosen