Read Cry Wolf for Free Online Page B

.”
    “Help us, Laurel! Please, please, please . . .”
    Her fingertips, then her knuckles scraped the brick as her fingers folded into fists. She sobbed silently for a moment, releasing a small measure of the inner tension, then swallowed it back, gagging on the need to cry even as she ruthlessly denied herself the privilege. She pushed herself away from the building and turned toward the balcony, swiping the tears from her face with the heels of her hands.
    Dammit, she wouldn't do this. She was stronger than this. She had come here to take control of her life again, not to fall apart twice in one night.
    Using anger to burn away the other emotions, she turned and slammed her fist against one of the many smooth white columns that supported the roof of the balcony, welcoming the stinging pain that sang up her arm.
    “Weak—stupid—coward—”
    She spat out the insults, her fury turning inward. She kicked herself mentally for her failures as she kicked the column with her bare foot. The pain burst through her like a jolt of electricity, shorting out everything else, breaking the thread of tension that had been thickening and tightening inside her.
    Gulping air, she bent over the balustrade, her fingers wrapping tightly around the black wrought-iron rail. In the wake of the pain flowed calm. Her muscles trembled, relaxing as the calm shimmered through her. Her heartbeat slowed to a steady bass-drum thump, thump, thump.
    “Sweet heaven, I have to
do
something,” she muttered. “I can't go on like this.”
    That truth had precipitated her leaving the Ashland Heights Clinic. Her stay there had been peaceful, but not productive. Dr. Pritchard had been more interested in digging up the past than in helping her fix her miserable present. She didn't see the point. What was done was done. She couldn't go back and fix it no matter how badly she wanted to. What she needed to do was push it behind her, rise above it. Move forward. Do something. Do what?
    Her job was gone. The fallout from The Case had fallen directly on her. She had been stripped of power, profession, credibility. She had no idea what would become of her, what she would ultimately do or be. Her job had been her identity. Without it she was lost.
    “I've got to do something,” she said again, looking around, as if an answer might appear to her somewhere down the dark corridor of the balcony or in the trees or the garden below.
    Belle Rivière had been built in the 1830s by a local merchant to placate his homesick young wife who had grown up in the Vieux Carré in New Orleans. The house was designed to emulate the elegant splendor of the French Quarter, right down to the beautiful courtyard garden with its fountain, and brick walls trimmed with lacy black wrought-iron filigree. The garden Laurel had spent two days trying to put to rights only to have Jack Boudreaux's dog—
allegedly
his dog—uproot her efforts. Damn hound.
    Damn man.
    The garden had been maintained sporadically over the years. Laurel remembered it as a place of marvelous beauty during her childhood when old Antoine Thibodeaux had tended it for Aunt Caroline. As lush and green as Eden, spray billowing from the fountain, elegant statues of Greek women carrying urns of exotic plants. Antoine had long since gone to his eternal rest, and Caroline's latest gardener had long since gone to New Orleans to be a female impersonator on Bourbon Street. Caroline, absorbed in her latest business venture, an antiques shop, hadn't bothered to hire anyone new.
    Laurel had seen it as the perfect project for her, physically, psychologically, metaphorically. Clear away the old debris, prune off the dead branches, rejuvenate the soil, plant new with a hopeful eye to the future. Resurrection, rebirth, a fresh start.
    She stared down at the mess Huey the Hound had left and heaved a sigh. Young plants torn up by the roots. She knew the feeling. . . .
             
    “Where are you taking Daddy's things,