light flashed over the area where he was hidden.
“There!” one of the voices said excitedly. “Did you see it?”
“Got it! Big ole fat one, too.”
He let out a quick breath.
Still, he didn’t want them to see him, so he remained hidden until the voices faded in the mist. When he was sure they were gone, he paddled back out into deeper water. A sinewy ribbon skimmed across the surface in the moonlight and he shivered, all too aware of the dangers in the swamp.
Another turn and he was there. The dilapidated shack was perched at the water’s edge, the porch sagging and the roof caved in from rot and decades of Gulf Coast storms.
Drifting up to the bank, he looped a rope over a cypress knee, then jumped over the side of the boat into ankle-deep water. He reached for the bundle and cradled it carefully in his arms as he entered the shack.
Once inside, he turned on his flashlight and skimmed the beam over the dusty walls and corners. Cobwebs glimmered in the light and something small scurried across the floor at his feet.
The cabin was haunted by his past. The memories were so overwhelming that he started to tremble. If he listened closely, he could hear the beat of all those silenced hearts, feel the accusing stare of all those sightless eyes. He didn’t like coming here, but there was no other way.
Setting the flashlight aside, he pried up a loose board and then removed the blanket from the silent bundle beside him. Long dark hair splayed across the filthy floorboards. Eyes shimmered in the moonlight spilling in through a broken window.
He touched her cold cheek and shuddered.
The doll was nearly perfect. He had outdone himself this time. Each step of the process had been inspired. Sculpting the clay, making the plaster mold, firing the porcelain and painting the delicate features—the end result, a work of art.
He had tested the limits of his talent…but still he’d fallen short.
He wanted to weep in frustration. No matter how many times he tried, no matter how hard he worked, he could not capture the essence of the child with only his hands and a block of clay. There was only one way to truly do her justice. His special way.
Quickly, he placed the doll—another failure—inside the hole with the others, turning his head so that he wouldn’t have to see all those gleaming eyes and taunting smiles. Settling the board back in place, he stood for a moment, letting out a long shaky breath as he waited for his nerves to steady.
Then he returned to the pirogue, unfastened the rope and paddled away from the cabin without looking back.
He never looked back when he came here. He was too afraid of what he might see.
Twenty-Three
By Thursday, Claire’s hand was so much better that she decided to stay on after the gallery closed, and make up for lost time in the studio. The other glassblowers left one by one, until by nine she had the place to herself. Normally, she loved working alone, but tonight she found herself jumping at every little sound. Which was to be expected, she supposed, after everything that had happened in the past week.
Perspiration gathered at the back of her neck and along her spine as she rolled the pliable glass across the steel marver to smooth and shape the surface. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and the heat in the studio was quickly sapping her energy. She’d gone to bed early, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mignon Bujold’s pale face staring up at her. And when Claire finally dozed off, she dreamed of being trapped in a cold, dark place, unable to move, unable to scream for help. She’d awakened struggling for breath, her heart pounding in terror until she realized it was only a nightmare. But she hadn’t been able to fall back asleep for hours.
Luckily, the gallery had been so busy all day that she hadn’t had time to dwell on the gruesome aspects of the shopkeeper’s death. But now, in the quiet of the studio, the horror came rushing back, and with it, Claire’s mounting frustration. It was obvious to her that a connection existed between the woman’s murder and the doll, but why would no one believe her? Her desperation had finally driven her to Dave, and when he’d refused to help her, Claire’s disappointment had been crushing, even though she’d tried to tell herself the outcome was to be expected. When had she ever been able to count on Dave Creasy for anything?
But a part of her had wanted to believe that he’d changed, and that when he heard about the doll, he’d be the one person who would believe her, who would be willing to move heaven and earth to help her.
Instead, he’d turned everything back to him and his needs, and Claire didn’t know why that had surprised her. She’d once loved him deeply, but when she looked back now, she realized that their relationship had always been about him. The dark moods, the drinking, even his betrayal. He’d slept with another woman not because he loved her, but because Angelette Lapierre had offered something he wanted and needed that Claire couldn’t give him. And because he was Dave, he’d taken it.
Sometimes Claire still wondered if the devastating hurt and humiliation of his betrayal, perhaps even more than her grief over Ruby’s disappearance, had been the catalyst that pushed her into Alex’s arms. And then once there, she hadn’t wanted to admit that she’d made a terrible mistake.
Now her second marriage had dissolved, too. Lucille thought it was because Claire had never gotten over Dave, but if seeing him again had proved anything to her, it was that her decision to walk out on him seven years ago had probably been the smartest thing she’d ever done. On most days, it was all she could do to battle her own demons, much less his.
As Claire continued to mold the glass, she tried to clear her mind, but tonight work wasn’t as therapeutic as she had hoped it would be. She couldn’t seem to concentrate, and found herself going through the steps automatically, reheating the glass, attaching the punty rod to the bottom, removing the blowpipe from the lip. Someone had borrowed her tools earlier and left them on her workbench. As she reached for the jacks, her hand stilled and a shiver crept over her. For a moment, she could have sworn someone was watching her.
She glanced at the row of windows, then turned to scan the space behind her. The studio was well-lit and she could see the whole room from where she was sitting. The door to the gallery was closed and locked, as was the rear entrance. Claire had worked alone in the studio dozens of times, and the solitude had never spooked her before. She didn’t know what had triggered her apprehension now, but suddenly she had the same premonition she’d experienced standing outside the back door of the collectibles shop. And as she turned, her gaze moving slowly over every inch of the studio, her heart began to hammer against her rib cage.
She’d been in the studio since the gallery closed at five, and she’d made sure to lock both outside doors when everyone else left. No one had come in or out since she’d been at her workbench, so there was nothing to worry about.
But for some reason, Claire’s mind flashed to the woman who had taken the tour of the studio on Saturday. Even though she’d stayed at the back of the crowd, Claire had noticed her because of her unusual appearance. She hadn’t thought much about her since that day, but now Claire found herself remembering the woman’s strange behavior.
But there was no way that woman—or anyone else—could get inside the studio without Claire knowing it. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. Taking a deep breath, she went back to work.
When she finally had the piece inside the annealer oven, where the glass would gradually cool until morning, she removed her Kevlar gloves and started to clean up around her workbench. Then she went to get her purse and keys, and recheck the gallery door before letting herself out the back way.
As soon as she opened the door, she saw the white box. It was tied with a pink ribbon and placed on the pavement where she wouldn’t miss it when she left.
Claire glanced up and scanned the parking area.
A security light had recently been installed at the back of the warehouse for nights when one of the glassblowers stayed late and had to leave the building alone. Her car was the only one left. No one else was around. No one that she could see, anyway.
