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way you can get out of that devil’s house.”
    Rita just smiled.
    She had no intention of leaving Huntington House.
    At least, not without David.

6
    D riving across town, making his way over the Royal Palm Bridge in his beat-up little Toyota Corolla, Jamison realized he was drunker than he’d thought. Just two beers, and his head was spinning. What was wrong with him? He gripped the steering wheel tightly in his hands and concentrated on the road. A light mist of rain speckled his windshield.
    He was feeling pleased with himself for his decision to go to the police. It was the right thing to do. These past several months had been wearing on his conscience. He had covered up a crime, he had lied to police, he had assisted in preventing justice for a young woman’s horrible death. Such actions could not be allowed to stand.
    Ever since he’d been a boy, growing up in rural Georgia, Jamison had tried to do the right thing. His father had been the pastor of Marin Hills Baptist Church, and for many years Jamison had proudly worn his WWJD bracelet on his wrist: What would Jesus do? But while taking classes at the local community college—Jamison had intended on becoming a dental hygienist—he’d lost that bracelet, and, no surprise, he’d lost his way as well. He’d started smoking and drinking, and getting too familiar with fast girls. He ended up dropping out of school. His father was deeply disappointed in him, and told him he could no longer depend on him to pay his way. Jamison had to move out of his parents’ house. He didn’t know where to go, except he knew he needed to get out of town, far away from his father’s disapproving eye. He’d lived in various little towns between there and here, finally lucking out by landing the job at Huntington House.
    The first Mrs. Huntington had spotted him bagging groceries at the local Publix. She’d struck up a conversation with him. Jamison had been taken with how beautiful she was. Before long, Dominique Huntington had offered him a job, at a very good wage, as a houseboy on the Huntington estate. Jamison had felt like God was giving him a second chance, and as His messenger, he had sent the most beautiful angel He could find.
    But now Jamison knew it had been Satan who had sent Dominique into that Publix that day. It had to have been Satan, since now Dominique’s ghost walked the earth—killing people.
    Still, at the time, Jamison had been glad for the job. It was more money than he had ever made before. It allowed him to leave the boardinghouses and shelters he’d been staying in ever since he left home and move into his own place, a little apartment above a convenience store that smelled constantly of kielbasa and popcorn.
    He pulled into the parking space behind the apartment. His head was still spinning, and he craved a cigarette. What had he done? He was very angry with himself. He’d drowned his sorrows over being fired in beer—and not just one but two! What was he thinking?
    Jamison knew it was a slippery slope from a couple of beers to a bottle of Jack. He had been doing so well, too. He’d gotten his life back together when he’d been hired at Huntington House. Who cared if he was a houseboy instead of a dental hygienist? It was an honest living. He’d made good money with the Huntingtons. His father had welcomed him home, telling him he was proud of him.
    And then Audra had to be found facedown in a pool of blood.
    It was Satan’s doing, getting me that job , Jamison thought.
    He got out of the car and locked the door. The night was damp and muggy, with a mist in the air. Jamison climbed the back stairs to his apartment and let himself inside. He flicked on the overhead light. “Home sweet home,” he said to himself.
    It wasn’t much, but it was his. The couch, which had come with the apartment, was cobwebbed with a light blue mildew. The kitchen table had a broken