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  “Detective Besson retired to a fishing camp,” Kai said.

  “He did, for true. But if you want to know what happened, you need ta find ’im.”

  “We’d have to have a boat,” I said, remembering what Kai had told me about the remoteness of the fishing camp.

  Walt shook his head. “Not just that. You’d need a guide. T. Paul’s Swamp Tours. He’ll get you there.” Walt glanced down the hall and said more loudly, “I should be finished here in a few minutes, sir. Just have ta pass a mop over dese floors.”

  “That’s okay,” Kai said. “Thank you.”

  Walt nodded and set to mopping the floor. Before turning to follow Kai, I glanced over my shoulder and saw what had prompted Walt to cut our conversation short.

  Detective Goober had stuck his head out of his office and was watching us.

  I gave him a casual nod and bent to take a sip from the water fountain. I pressed the button, lips pursed and ready for the arcing stream of water. Nothing happened.

  “It’s broken,” Goober said. “All the water fountains were disconnected after Katrina.”

  I straightened and nodded an awkward farewell, then turned to catch up with Kai.

  “You could never be a spy,” he said as we walked to where Bluebell and Moss were waiting.

  “What are you talking about? I’d be a great spy.”

  “No, because the second someone told you, ‘Don’t look now!’ you’d look, and that would be that. Cover blown.”

  “Whatever. I can talk to animals.” I stopped to unlock the passenger side door and looked up at him in challenge. “Beat that.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t do it from far enough away and you’re prone to passing out afterward.”

  “I’d just need a partner to catch me.”

  “You’ve already got that.”

  I smiled at him and, because I didn’t know what, if anything, he was insinuating, I quickly headed around to the driver’s side.

  Moss gave me a quick sniff as a greeting and wanted to know when I was going to make good on my promise.

  Treat?

  Not yet, buddy.

  No treat?

  Later.

  With an audible sigh, my dog settled into the backseat.

  “What do you think of Detective Goober’s version of Sean Preaux’s murder?” I asked as I started Bluebell’s engine.

  “Without looking at the case file and evidence it’s hard to say.”

  “But do you think Ronnie might be one of the bad guys?”

  “Detective Goober thinks so.”

  “Logan did grab her,” I said, cranking the heater. “Maybe he had a good reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe we’ve been looking at this the wrong way. Ronnie might be in trouble because she is trouble.”

  “So she deserves to be tied to a table and who knows what else?” Kai said.

  “No, but—”

  “Is this about you wanting to believe Logan’s not such a bad guy?”

  “What? No. I know Logan’s a bad guy.” As I said it, I remembered his words. “Grace, please.”

  “You’re not a very good liar,” Kai said.

  “Maybe not, but I’m getting better.” Not wanting to talk about Logan, I changed the subject. “What’s the plan? Are we going to try to track down Detective Besson?”

  “According to Walt, that’s the only way to get the truth.”

  “Then let’s find T. Paul’s.”

  Kai used his phone to try and Google the tour company with no luck, so we stopped at a Frank’s grocery store to ask about it. The clerk gave us directions and advised us to follow the gator signs.

  Sure enough, we found the turn alongside a hand-painted sign featuring a smiling alligator wearing a straw hat. Under the gator were the words SWAMP TOUR and an arrow.

  In smaller letters, crammed along the bottom, was a phone number.

  I followed the signs while Kai called to arrange a tour with T. Paul. When he hung up he smiled and looked at me. “Looks like we’re going on a romantic tour of the swamp.”

  “You really know how to spoil a girl.”

  “I do my best.”

  We came to a drawbridge and had to wait an eternity for a barge to pass, which meant it was almost dark by the time we made it to the dock where we were supposed to meet our guide.

  There was no one in sight. Leaving Moss in the car for the moment so he didn’t frighten anyone, we climbed out of Bluebell and walked toward the mobile home closest to the water.

  A woman holding a squirming toddler answered the door. “You the ones called about getting a ride down the bayou?”

  “Yes. Sorry we’re late,” Kai said.

  The woman flicked her gaze to me, shifted the child onto her other hip, and turned to call out, “T. Paul! Those people from town are here.”

  From inside, a man’s voice responded in what must have been Cajun French. I didn’t catch more than a few syllables, but the woman turned back to us and said, “You can go on around.” She canted her head to the side of the house. We thanked her and headed in that direction.

  Feet crunching on winter-dry grass, we walked toward the water. As we reached the small dock, the back door of the trailer banged open and a man wearing white rubber boots, overalls, and a faded green sweatshirt clomped down the steps and walked toward us.

  “T. Paul?” Kai asked.

  “That’s me,” the man said, and offered his hand. Kai took it, introduced me, and asked if we could still make it out to the fishing camp.

  “Mai, yeah, we can try. Be dark by the time we get there, though.”

  “Not a problem for us, if it’s not a problem for you.”

  “Me—no. You? Well, we’ll see.” With that cryptic remark, he moved past us onto the rickety-looking dock and began untying the smallest wooden canoe I’d ever seen. Although maybe canoe wasn’t the right word, because it did have a small motor attached to the back with what looked like zip ties.

  “We’re taking that?” I asked.

  “Water’s too low for anything else. We have to take the pirogue.”

  It wasn’t that I was afraid of the water. I grew up swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. But the bayou, though pretty with its cypress knees and moss-draped trees, was not something I wanted to get too close to. Tipping over and into the muddy water would not be fun—especially in January.

  T. Paul saw me eyeing the murky water and said, “Don’t worry—ain’t nothin’ in there to be afraid of. Unless you scared of a little ol’ gator.”

  “I’m not afraid of alligators,” I replied. Which was true. “But I’m not crazy about the idea of falling in that water. It has to be freezing.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “For true, it is! So don’t fall in.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny or simply poking fun at the city slickers. I imagined a little of both.

  I glanced at Kai, who lifted a shoulder as if to say, What else are we going to do?

  With a resigned nod, I fetched Moss from the car and joined Kai on the dock, where he waited as T. Paul climbed into the boat.

  “Great God!” T. Paul jumped when he saw Moss standing on his pier.

  “He’s harmless,” I said. And, except in situations involving his kitten or myself, for the most part it was true.

  “Thought he was the rougarou.”

  “The what?” I asked.

  “A werewolf.”

  “Are those common around here?” I asked.

  “Some say so.” He eyed my dog. “He’s big for a pirogue.”

  “He’ll sit wherever I tell him to.”

  “Put him up front, then.”

  “You got it.” I had the feeling T. Paul was more concerned with keeping Moss as far away as possible tha
n he was with his size.

  Kai stepped into the boat and offered his hand to help me. I took it, then paused to let my dog know he was next.

  Steady, Moss. You’re coming, too.

  Safe?

  I promise.

  With a firm grip on Kai’s hand, I carefully climbed into the bobbing vessel.

  Moss managed to wait until I was seated before clamoring into the boat, more specifically, my lap.

  I let out an “oof” and grabbed him to steady us both.

  Stay!

  The boat bounced and listed to the side, but we managed to stay on board.

  Dizzy.

  You’re not dizzy, I told Moss. The boat is. Be still.

  Because he trusts me, he did as I asked and the pirogue settled.

  So far, so good.

  “You okay?” Kai asked.

  I turned my face to the side to avoid getting a mouthful of Moss. “We’re good. Let me just get him off me.”

  Okay, buddy, go this way. I focused on where I wanted him to sit. Be easy.

  Moss understood “being easy” meant he had to tread carefully. He took his time and moved to the front of the boat.

  I nodded at T. Paul. He started the engine and we were on our way.

  As we picked up speed, Moss positioned himself at the bow like a furry figurehead.

  My nose and cheeks were numb with cold within minutes but Moss kept his nose into the wind. All the better to revel in all the unique scents of the bayou.

  Basking in the glory of smells as only a canine could, he began to categorize each aroma in detail. The nuance of each was too layered and multidimensional for my poor human brain to understand. Rather than try to untangle and interpret his thoughts, I pulled my mental shield into place and tuned him out.

  My interpretation was that the bayou was both teeming with life and eroding with decay.

  Darkness came on quickly. Only a few minutes after sunset, we were motoring through the murky gloom of the bayou, and I could understand why you would want to avoid getting lost out here in the dark.

  The naked branches of the cypress reached out like skeletal fingers. Logs and other debris bumped along the bottom of the small boat. The haunting beauty I’d observed earlier had morphed into my feeling simply haunted.

  I shivered, as much from the eeriness as the cold night air.

  As if sensing my unease, Kai moved to put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to his side. I felt myself relax a fraction. The feeling didn’t last very long.

  A moment later, the engine downshifted and abruptly cut off.

  “Everything okay?” Kai asked.

  “We’re here,” T. Paul said.

  Kai and I glanced around. Out of the gloom I could see the vague outline of what might’ve been a wooden structure.

  “Where’s the dock?” I asked.

  “Got washed away a while back.”

  The cold kept most of the bugs away, making the evening oddly quiet for a swamp.

  We floated toward the fishing camp and, just as we started to push through the reeds, T. Paul stood, pulled a long paddle from the side of the canoe, and started poling through the marsh.

  He stopped when the bottom of the pirogue scraped on the shore.

  We were still surrounded by tall reeds and I wasn’t sure how to disembark. Moss, however, had no problem either seeing in the dark or hopping off the boat. It was a good thing I didn’t try to follow because a moment later a shotgun blast shattered the quiet of the cold night.

  Before I could do so much as scream, Kai had pushed me to the bottom of the canoe and was lying on top of me.

  “Moss!” I cried out for my dog and struggled to get up.

  Kai held me fast and snapped, “Stay down.”

  Rather than waste time arguing with Kai, I opened my mind to my dog and urged him to crouch low in the reeds.

  Down, Moss. Get down.

  I felt him comply. But to be sure he was safe, I slipped into his mind more completely and merged my senses to his.

  Two things happened at once, neither of them helpful.

  I could feel the shock of icy water on my belly. I could also see from his perspective, and though his night vision is much better than mine that helps only if you’re not surrounded by a wall of reeds.

  Shivering, I eased away from the connection and let his mind slip away from mine like beach sand through my fingertips.

  Kai had noticed my sudden onset of tremors. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just cold.”

  There was a splash and T. Paul let out a string of curses. Most were Cajun but I got the gist.

  “Nonc Will!” T. Paul yelled. “William Besson! Put that gun away, couyon!”

  “Who dat?” A deep voice called back.

  “T. Paul.”

  “T. Paul?” The voice I assumed belonged to Will Besson was full of doubt. “T. Paul’d know better. Sneaking up at night.”

  T. Paul said something else in Cajun I couldn’t hope to understand and I tried to get my heart to slow down before it burst through my rib cage.

  “I got some folks from town want to talk to you ’bout a murder.”

  “Murder?” There was a lengthy pause. “This a trick?”

  “Nonc, who’d want to do that, eh? Now, put that gun away, or I’ll tell Evangeline you tried to kill her favorite nephew.”

  There was a rustle in the bushes. Kai, who was still shielding my head with his arms, moved and slowly let me up.

  I sat up to see an older man, standing spotlighted in the reeds to our left. T. Paul, who was shining the light, was soaking wet, standing knee-deep in the bayou to our right.

  “Sorry,” the man said. He lowered the shotgun to point it at the ground.

  “Could have killed someone.” Shaking his head, T. Paul stepped over to the boat and grabbed the bowline. “Hold on,” he told us.

  We did and he hauled the boat farther up onto the muddy bank.

  “Thought you was the rougarou,” Will said defensively.

  Kai planted his hands on the side of the pirogue and hopped over the side.

  “What is it with this rougarou thing?” I asked as Kai helped me out of the boat. My boots sank into the mud, but not too far.

  “The rougarou is cursed. Part man, part beast,” Will said.

  “And it lives in the swamp?”

  “It can live anywhere, because it can change shape.” He nodded at Moss. “Your dog doesn’t look much like a dog.”

  “He’s part timber wolf.”

  Will nodded but continued to eye Moss suspiciously.

  “Take them on up, Will. I’ve got to tie off here.”

  We followed as Will trudged through the reeds.

  As it turns out, a Cajun fishing camp, at least in Will’s case, is basically a cabin on stilts.

  The rickety wooden staircase shook as Will started the climb to the cabin, and I took a moment to study him before following. A solid old guy with leathery, scarred hands that looked like they could bend nails, he was big in a way that spoke more of a life of hard labor and good genetics than an overabundance of time at a desk.

  He was the polar opposite of Detective Goober.

  “Come on in,” he said, leading us through a screened porch into the cabin.

  T. Paul stomped past us a moment later, muttering something about dry clothes, and disappeared into another room. Will ignored his nephew and continued into the kitchen.

  “You can have a seat there.” He motioned to a Formica-topped table ringed with three mismatched wooden chairs. We settled on opposite sides of the table, leaving the last chair for our host.

  “I was just fixin’ some gumbo,” he said, stopping at the stove. He lifted a cutting board and used a large butcher knife to scrape chunks of meat into
a pot. “Still has to cook though. Y’all want something else?”

  “Detective Besson, we came to talk about—”

  “A case.” The old man waved the subject away. “I know, I heard what T. Paul said. But that boy don’t understand. I’m retired. My memory, it’s not so good, see.”

  “It’s a fairly recent case,” Kai began.

  “How about some jerky?” Ignoring Kai’s efforts to steer the conversation, the retired detective opened a mint green Frigidaire that had to be as old as he was—and I was guessing Will was pushing seventy.

  “Let’s see . . .” he said as he rummaged around. “I got possum jerky. Some nutria.” He turned and looked at Moss, then lifted his gaze to me. “Your dog like nutria?”

  Treat?

  “Probably. He’ll eat anything.”

  “That so?”

  Will unwrapped a package of dried meat and took it to the cutting board to chop off a chunk.

  Still holding the knife, he turned to look at Moss. “They say you make a rougarou bleed it breaks the curse.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  Kai stood very slowly and took a step forward. The gesture was subtle but its meaning was clear.

  If Will wanted to get to Moss, he’d have to go through Kai.

  A surge of fluttering heat carrying a slew of unnamed emotions swirled through me. In that moment I knew the answer to Emma’s question.

  Did I love Kai?

  Yes.

  Before I could fully process that revelation, I noticed something odd. Though Kai was clearly tense, Moss was not. In fact, he was not feeling the least bit threatened. And it wasn’t just the smell of food and his eagerness for a taste of whatever was cooking.

  Something wasn’t adding up.

  “Put the knife down,” Kai said. After a pause he tacked on, “Please.”

  “What?” Will glanced at the knife, seeming surprised to find he was holding it, then set it on the counter. “I don’t mean no harm. I’m just telling the story of the rougarou.”

  When Kai didn’t sit, Will picked up a piece of jerky, turned, and offered it to Moss.

  “For true, I don’t. Here. Come see.”

  Moss trotted forward. I wasn’t worried. My dog was much faster than Will. And I was watching—the slightest hint that he was going for the knife and I’d let Moss know to protect himself.