“Good,” she retorted.

“After L.A.,” he qualified.

Like it or not, she needed him in L.A. Charlie Long was the big time. She needed his advice, and she needed his protection. They had a ten-year relationship, and he couldn’t turn his instincts off like tap water.

“You are no longer on the payroll,” she declared.

“I’m still coming to L.A.”

“You are not going to change my mind.”

“I never thought I would.”

“Suit yourself.” She flounced toward the door. “But after that, we are done.”

“Your choice,” he said, schooling his features, pretending there wasn’t a hot knife slicing its way through his guts.

“Joanie?” came Heather’s cheerful voice, her running footsteps sounding on the staircase.

Joan took a deep breath and carefully evened out her features. “Up here, Heather.” Her voice was unnervingly composed.

Heather appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Samuel.

“That was fast,” said Anthony, suppressing his own emotions and checking out Samuel’s stark white sling. The man was obviously one tough bastard.

Samuel shrugged his good shoulder. “I told them if I wasn’t bleeding to death, I wasn’t staying. Nobody tried to stop me.”

Anthony guessed not.

Heather strode into the room, either oblivious to or ignoring the undercurrents between Joan and Anthony. She perched on his unmade bed. “Samuel has a theory.”

“What kind of a theory?” asked Joan. You’d never know from her tone that their relationship had just crumbled into a thousand pieces.

Samuel leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze seeking out Anthony. “I think we may still be dealing with a fan.”

“I’m listening,” said Anthony, struggling to focus on Samuel.

She’d fired him. Fired him.

“When I first read the book,” said Samuel, “I thought a lot of it was true.”

Heather stood up and paced across the room in her miniskirt and high heels. “Which got us thinking-”

Samuel jumped back in. “Maybe somebody else thought all of it was true.”

“I’m not following,” said Joan.

“The money.” Anthony couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet. “In your story, there’s money stashed in the walls of Samuel’s cottage. Somebody thinks it’s really there.”

Heather snapped her fingers and pointed at Anthony. “Give the man a gold star.”

“But I made that up,” Joan argued.

“They don’t know that,” said Samuel. “And I bet they broke into your house first looking for clues.”

“They did steal my research notes,” Joan conceded.

“Have you talked to Alain?” asked Anthony.

Samuel shook his head. “Thought I’d run it by you first.”

Anthony had to admit there was merit to the theory. And if it was true, Joan was in no danger from the shooter. “So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, parroting Alain’s words from last night. His faith in the chief was restored.

“I don’t think the guy wanted me dead,” Samuel suggested. “It was a panic reaction. I caught him in the act, and he was armed.”

“Have you been inside your cottage?” Anthony asked. If any of the wall panels were torn down, they’d know the theory was bang on. Just like in Bayou Betrayal.

“Not yet,” Samuel told him.

Heather took a small half step in Samuel’s direction. “If we can avoid the reporters, we’re going over there to look around.”

“You want to come with us?” Samuel asked Anthony.

“Yeah,” Anthony replied with a nod. “But then we have to head for L.A.”

Heather looked at Joan and raised her eyebrows in a question.

“I promised to do Charlie Long Live,” Joan explained, carefully avoiding looking at Anthony.

Heather’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”

“I know,” said Joan. “It’s not what-”

“We never called Mom.” Heather darted for the bedroom door, and Samuel quickly stepped out of her way. “She’ll have sent the jet to St. Martinville.”

Joan swore as she followed her sister out. Anthony still couldn’t get used to hearing that word come out of Joan’s mouth.


JOAN’S STOMACH cramped as she followed Heather and the men, slinking past the garage to the back door of Samuel’s cottage.

She’d fired Anthony.

She was making a point when she did that, an important point about him undermining her wishes. But she’d half expected him to fight for her. Completely expected him to fight for her. Desperately wanted him to fight for her.

But he hadn’t.

And now he was fired.

And she couldn’t take that back.

She started up the stairs and realized the others had come to a halt in front of her.

She craned her neck. “What?”

Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.

Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.

Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.

Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.

Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.

If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surroundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.

The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.

Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.

“It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.

Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.

Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.

“I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.

He took a couple more steps into the room, shaking his head. “I have to go through everything myself anyway.”

Joan nodded in understanding. “You need to know if anything is missing.”

Samuel crouched down and flipped through a discarded photo album. “I doubt there’s anything missing.”

She glanced around at the destruction. “How could you know that?”

“I don’t remember the guy carrying anything.”

“Well, we know he didn’t find the money.” It had seemed like such a good plot twist at the time. Now she wished she’d used something else, anything else.

Samuel picked up a cracked picture frame, blew off the dust, and straightened to set it on an oak end table. “I have half a mind to hide some cash in the walls myself. Let them take it and put an end to all this.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?”

He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.

“You have that kind of money?” she asked.

“I live a frugal life.”

He’d saved that much money on a carpenter’s salary? What was he doing working in Indigo, Louisiana? He should invest in the market, open his own business.

He reached down and picked up another leather-bound album. “Not that I want to blow it on some thief.”

“You know, Charlie Long says my stint on his show might reopen the investigation.” She wasn’t convinced Samuel’s father was innocent, but the possibility of looking at the case again might be a small consolation to Samuel.

“Might help me more if you told everybody there wasn’t any real money involved.”

“That’s true,” she said with a nod. It wasn’t a bad idea.

Samuel disentangled a lamp from the debris and straightened the shade. “I was joking. They’d never believe you. In fact, some people would take it as proof the money existed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They’ll think you’re after it for yourself.”

“If I wanted it for myself, I would have stolen it before the book was published.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Except that you didn’t expect people to ever find out you lived in Indigo.”

Wasn’t that the truth. She put a hand on his arm. “I really am sorry this turned out so bad for you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Sure it is. I wrote the book.”

He cocked his head and gazed down at her. “You been beatin’ yourself up about this?”

She shrugged.

He cracked a smile. “Well, get over it, kid. Shit happens.”

Her eyes suddenly burned. With everything crashing down around their ears, Samuel had it in him to care about her feelings. He was an extraordinary man. She wished she’d taken the time to get to know him before this.

She sighed. “Sometimes I feel like everything I touch turns to crap.”

“You’re really not much like your sister, are you?”

Joan shook her head. No, she’d never been as capable as Heather.

“She got the confidence, and you got the guilt?”

“Maybe. But it’s only because everything she does turns out right.”

“That’s a laugh,” said Samuel.

“You should hear her play the violin.”