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had wanted to stay close to home and to be as far away from Simon as he could get.
    He had gotten both of his wishes and had returned to Bayou Allain after his release, determined to make a go of Le Hasard. Simon had served three tours of duty, having no real home to return to, nothing calling him back to civilian life. After his discharge, he’d worked private security for a firm that paid him more money than he’d ever need to provide protection for contractors and media types assigned to the world’s hot spots.
    That was where Hank Smithson had found him—specifically in Afghanistan guarding bodies in danger hell-bent on hitting the evening news. The offer he hadn’t been able to refuse had included a move to Manhattan. The change of scenery had appealed—as had the thought of a home of his own, since he’d had nothing but a post office box for sixteen years.
    That had been four years ago.
    He’d been thirty-four, young enough to crave the adventure, old enough to know when to say no, experienced enough to get himself out of the scrapes that came with the job of being an SG-5 operative. The physical scrapes, anyway. He wasn’t doing quite as well with the mental.
    Shaking off the recent past and that even farther away, he slowed as he reached the bridge that crossed the swamp-land giving Bayou Allain its name. A fire truck, an ambulance, and three cars from the sheriff ’s department blocked all but one slice of road. Simon could understand why. Hitting the abutment at too high a speed had not fared wel l for the car below, its front end buried in the muck, its underbelly exposed to the elements and covered in the detritus of the swamp.
    The scene wasn’t fresh. The car’s wheels weren’t spinning. He didn’t see signs of a driver or passenger, though that could be explained by the ambulance. At least the parish coroner wasn’t on-site.
    He made it across the bridge without incident, sped up for the last half mile before the turn into his property, and headed for the house in which he’d grown up. Seeing King was going to require a concerted effort. He wouldn’t know where to find his cousin’s path to cross it.
    So much for the family dynasty, he mused, his truck rolling to a stop in front of a twostory frame structure that he barely recognized as his childhood home. What in the hell was Savoy Realty doing with the money he sent monthly for maintenance? Why hadn’t Lorna asked for more if she needed it?
    No wonder she hadn’t been able to keep the place rented. The gap on the most recent rental report was suddenly making a whole lot of sense. He took a minute to shake off the burst of anger, then climbed out of the truck.
    He’d haul in his gear after he checked out the house, gauged whether or not it was livable or if his options for the night were sleeping in his truck or pitching a tent. He wasn’t up to rooming with raccoons, possums, and rats.
    The porch steps were solid enough, though the railing wouldn’t have supported the weight of a bird. He shook it again. He’d have to round up a hammer and nails, pick up a couple of new two-by-fours…. Uh, no. He wouldn’t. Not until he got with Lorna to see what was going on.
    He was checking out the warped porch and the fit of the screen door’s frame when he heard a noise inside. The back door opened into the kitchen, and he knew critters enjoyed burrowing into cupboards, beneath old appliances, even holing up under floorboards. Except how many of those critters had figured out pumping the handle to bring up water from the wel l to the sink?
    He slid the Smith & Wesson M&P .357 he wore at his waist from its holster, took hold of the doorknob, and slowly turned it, pushing inward until he saw movement, then slamming the door open, swinging up his hands, gun at the ready.
    “Who the hell—?” was a l l he got out before realizing he knew exactly who his trespasser was.
    He’d just never seen her like this…standing at a kitchen sink, her dark