about to sell out everything you thought you believed in.
She went into the bathroom and washed her face and sat down on the stool, her head spinning. She could not remember when she’d felt so miserable.
Pierre Dupree was not her only problem, and she knew it. The man named Marco had given her ten days to kill Clete Purcel and Dave and Alafair Robicheaux. Gretchen’s mother was no longer a hostage, but that would not change what was expected of her. She would either deliver or get delivered, along with Clete and his best friend and Alafair. Though her enemies knew where she was, she had no idea where they were, just as Clete had warned her. How could all of these things be happening right when she thought she might be beginning a new life, one that offered a chance at a career in filmmaking?
These were her thoughts when she glanced through the front screen and saw Pierre Dupree pull into her driveway early Thursday afternoon and begin fishing something out of a paper sack. Why was it that everything about him had become a mystery? Even his arrival at her cottage seemed unreal, like part of a dream that had detached itself from her sleep and reappeared during her waking hours. Leaves were drifting down on top of the Humvee, the sunlight on his tinted windows like a yellow balloon wobbling inside dark water. She could hear the heat ticking in the engine and the sprinkler system in the neighbor’s yard bursting to life.
Dupree leaned down and picked up a bouquet of mixed roses and opened the door of his Humvee. As he walked up on her porch, he was so tall that he almost blocked out the trees and the sky and the church steeple across the street. Even though it was not yet two P.M., his beard had already darkened, as though he had shaved in the predawn hours; a strand of black hair hung down over his forehead. There was a dimple in his chin and a dent in the skin at the corner of his mouth, as though he wanted to smile but did not want to be presumptuous. In his left hand, he carried a box wrapped in gold foil and red felt ribbon.
“I was on my way back from the airport in Lafayette and stopped and bought these for you,” he said.
She had rehearsed a reply, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
“Miss Gretchen, I don’t blame you for being suspicious of me,” he said. “I simply wanted to drop these by. If you like, you can give them to someone else. It’s just a small gesture on my part.”
“Come in.”
Had she said that?
“Thank you,” he said, stepping inside. “You have such a nice spot here. It looks so comfortable and restful. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“It’s all right. I mean the place is all right. I rented it. The furniture came with it.”
“Can I put the flowers in some water?” he asked. He was peering into the back of the house, but he was so close she could smell the heat that seemed to exude from his skin. “Miss Gretchen?”
“Can you what?”
“Put these in a vase. They’ll go well on the dining room table, don’t you think? You know, add a splash of color? Here. You like dark chocolate? You’re not on a diet, are you?”
She couldn’t keep up with what he was saying. Her face was hot, her ears pinging as though she were deep underwater, her air tanks empty, the pressure breaking something inside her head. “There’s a glass jar in the cabinet,” she said.
He walked through the dining room and began filling the jar at the sink, his back to her, his shoulders as broad as an ax handle inside his dress shirt. “I went on a private plane to Galveston early this morning and dissolved my business connections with a company I never should have been involved with,” he said. “I also settled some financial affairs with my ex. I’m going back to painting full-time. I’m getting rid of my ad business as well.”
He turned around, drying his hands on a paper towel. He crumpled the towel and set it absentmindedly behind him on the drainboard. Then he picked up the towel and began looking for a place to put it.
“Under the sink,” she said.
“Are you going to the musical revue in New Iberia this weekend?”
“I’m making a documentary of it.”
“That’s wonderful. My ex is sponsoring one of the bands, a western swing group of some kind.” He continued to gaze into her face, his eyes locked on hers. “You’re not a fan of my ex?”
“She said some ugly things to me.”
“What did you do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I didn’t have to. Alafair Robicheaux did. She popped her in the mouth. Your ex is a cunt.”
“Good Lord, Miss Gretchen.”
“I don’t like people calling me ‘miss,’ either.”
“That’s what Varina says. She hates that word.”
“Good for her. She’s still a cunt. Are you holding your breath?”
“No. Why?”
“Because your face is red. Men do that when they want to seem innocent and shy.”
“I grew up here. Most women here don’t use that kind of language.”
“You’re saying I’m not as good as they are?”
“No, it’s the other way around. I admire you tremendously.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know how to put the fear of God in a man. On top of it, you’re beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“I’m going to be a little personal here. Let’s put the nonsense aside. You’re an extraordinary woman, the kind every man wants to be with. You radiate a combination of power and femininity that’s rare. I’m very drawn to you.”
“Yeah, that is a little personal,” she replied. She could feel the blood rising in her chest, her breasts swelling. “What do you think you know about me?”
“I don’t understand.”
“My background. Who do you think I am? What do you think I do for a living?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t know?” she said.
“I don’t care what you do for a living.”
“I have an antique business. I’ve done other things as well.”
“I don’t care about your history. You are what you are. You have the statuesque physique of a warrior woman and the eyes of a little girl.”
“Why are you here today?”
“To bring you these small gifts.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m here to do whatever you want.”
He touched her on the cheek with his fingertips. She was breathing through her nose, her nipples hardening. She searched his eyes, her cheeks flaming. “Call me later,” she said.
“What’s your number?”
“I just got my phone. I don’t remember what it is. Call information.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?”
“I lost it.”
“You still don’t trust me, do you? I don’t blame you.”
She wet her lips. She couldn’t take her eyes off his. Her cheek seemed to burn where he had touched her. “You called me a kike while you almost broke my fingers.”
“I’ll be ashamed of that for the rest of my life.”
“I have to go into the bathroom.”
“Do you mean for me to stay? I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later. I’m going to leave and let you make some decisions while I’m not around.”
“I didn’t say you had to leave.”
“No, I don’t want to be a source of anxiety or guilt or conflict for you. I’d better go. I’m sorry for any offense I
