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"Then why haven't you gone to the police?"
    Lem shifted uneasily, shot a quick look to Travis. "That's enough—"
    "Got a wife and a kid," Travis muttered, and the urgency to his voice betrayed the fear the big grizzled man was trying to hide. "A couple of grandkids."
    In other words, he was scared spitless.
    "Push me."
    Mind spinning, she blinked. "What?"
    He put a big sweaty hand to her arm and slid it down to her wrist. "Push me away," he practically snapped. "Pretend like I'm annoying you!"
    Lem pushed closer.
    Renee jerked back. "What—"
    "Just do it!" Travis commanded. Then, "Such a sweet thang…"
    Someone was watching. Catching on, she shoved him away from her. "I'm not interested," she said extra loudly, to which Travis laughed and staggered back into the alley, Lem hot on his heels.
    Only then did Renee allow herself to glance behind her, where she saw a tall woman with long hair standing stiffly outside the restaurant.
     
    There were many ways to kill someone—and many more ways to die. Some deaths were visible and public, garishly smeared all over the evening news for the whole world to gawk at. Others were more peaceful and private, quiet almost.
    Some people died surrounded by family. For others, it was strangers who stood by them as they drew their last breath. The lucky ones passed alone.
    Some deaths were of the body. Others were of the soul.
    Cain turned from a photograph of a butterfly hovering over a honeysuckle. He strode away from the exhibit, stared into the darkness. He'd received more than a few horrified looks when he'd announced his plans to renovate the old abandoned church, turn it into his gallery. Even his sister had tried to talk him out of it. The building was cursed, legend said. Had been for almost a century, since someone broke in and desecrated the altar, stole the crucifix and statue of the Virgin Mary. Only a few weeks later a fever hit the town, and no matter how much time locals spent kneeling in prayer, a substantial portion of the town perished.
    Cain curled his hands around the porch rail and listened to the crickets and the toads, the bayou gurgling nearby, just as he'd done as a kid, when he and Gabe had concocted increasingly creative dares pertaining to the old church. Go inside. Kneel at the altar. Sleep beneath the spot where the crucifix once hung.
    The building should have been torched long ago, the locals claimed, but no one dared make the first move. So the town had let the church fall into decay, allowing wild roses to ramble up the sides and the windows, while bougainvillea and camellias consumed the porch railings. Weeds hid the rest.
    He couldn't imagine a more perfect place to display his work.
    He stood there now, as he had so many other nights, and stared out at the oaks sprawling down the grassy slope toward the water. The shadows danced uneasily, swaying and violating in ways that made his hands curl even more tightly around the wood rail.
    Because of the woman.
    He turned toward her slowly, found her standing in the shadow of an overgrown white oleander at the far side of the porch. Unnaturally still. Unnaturally pale.
    "Hasn't anyone told you," he drawled, and felt the slow burn spread like poison through his body, "it's not smart to be alone with me in the dark?"

CHAPTER THREE
     
     
    D etective John D'Ambrosia emerged from the swarm of tourists crowding historic Jackson Square. He walked with purpose, his expression hard and unreadable. Despite the fact the sun had already gone down, dark aviator glasses concealed his eyes … however Gabe knew the detective saw everything.
    The two had been working together for over a year, but Gabe still didn't know much about the man who'd taken over Cain's investigation. He was the son of a Texas oil heiress and New Orleans cop killed in the line of duty. D'Ambrosia kept to himself, never discussed his personal life, always declined invitations for Thursday-night poker. Not even his partner, Alec Prejean, knew much