Watch Me Die (23 page)

“Sorry again. For waking you up.”

“S’okay, Mira. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Was somebody else here a little while ago? A guy?”

Deni shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”

“I thought … I thought I heard a guy talking.”

Again, Deni shook her head. “I talk in my sleep sometimes. Maybe that was what you heard?”

She was lying, Mira thought. But why?

“Maybe so,” she said, working to keep her tone light. “Night, Deni.”

As she headed back to the couch, Mira wondered why Deni would lie to her. What could be so awful that she would try to hide it with a lie?

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Wednesday, August 17

5:17
A.M.

Mira sneaked out at first light. At least that’s the way it felt as she scribbled a thank-you note to Deni, propped it up by the coffeemaker, then quietly let herself out. She didn’t know why, but the last thing she wanted to do this morning was face Deni.

On the front porch, she quickly scanned the block, though uncertain what she was looking for. Other than a stray dog poking around a garbage can, the street was deserted.

She unlocked her car and climbed inside, checked the backseat the way her mother had taught her to, then started the engine and drew away from the curb.

It was so early that even the Starbucks drive-thru wasn’t open, so she settled for coffee from a 24-hour convenience store. Mira sipped as she drove, keeping the confusing jumble of her thoughts at bay by singing along with the radio.

Mira turned on to her street. Mrs. Latrobe had left her porch light on. She wondered how late the woman had waited up for her to return. Maybe she had fallen asleep spyglass in hand.

Nola did, indeed, have to go. When Mira opened the front door, the dog darted out and squatted in the yard for what seemed like an eternity.

“Poor baby,” Mira murmured when Nola had finished her business and loped up to the porch wearing a huge grin. Mira scratched behind her ears. “Feel better now?”

Nola wagged her tail in response and trotted into the house. Mira started to follow, then stopped. What if Jeff was here, waiting for her? She had imagined seeing him again, their reunion—had played and replayed the joyful, romantic scenario—hundreds of times. Maybe thousands.

But now, strangely, her mind was blank except for Deni’s comment from the night before:
“He’s a sick son of a bitch who doesn’t deserve your devotion.”

The truth of that settled uncomfortably over her. She stepped into the foyer. A hum filled her head. Her blood rushing, she realized. As if sensing her master’s hesitation, Nola looked back at her, head cocked.

Mira shut the door, the click of the latch seeming to echo in the quiet. She took a step deeper into the house, then another, doing so until she stood at the bottom of the stairs. She lifted her gaze to the upper landing.

Was he here?

“Jeff?” she called, his name coming out a choked whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Jeff! I’m home.”

Silence answered. She called once more, even louder.

Still nothing.

Swallowing hard, she climbed the steps, hand skimming the rail, head growing light. She reached the second-floor landing and turned toward the master suite.

The door was closed.

Her steps faltered. She always left it open.

“People are dead … I’m no cop, but you have a connection to all of them … I’m afraid for you…”

Mira reached the door, grasped the knob and twisted. The door slowly swung open.

Empty. Nothing out of order. She let out a shaky breath, feeling like an idiot. A complete ass. Sunlight tumbled across the made bed, falling on something shiny on the floor. By Jeff’s side of the bed.

She crossed to it, bent and picked it up. A dime. She turned it over in her fingers. Minted in 2005.

The year Katrina struck.

Mira shifted her gaze to the bed. The spread was mussed, as if someone had sprawled atop it. The pillow bore the imprint of a head.

A small squeak passed her lips.
He’d been here. He’d lain in the bed. Waiting for her.

She snatched up the pillow, brought it to her face. It smelled like him, she thought, breathing deeply. His aftershave.

“… a sick son of a bitch who doesn’t deserve your devotion.”

A chill washed over her. She dropped the pillow and backed toward the door.

From downstairs, she heard her name called. She jumped and whirled around.
Jeff! He really was alive!

Her name came again. “Are you home? It’s Connor!”

She brought a hand to her chest. Beneath it, her heart beat so hard and fast she feared it might burst from her chest.

Working to slow it, she exited the bedroom and crossed to the top of the stairs. “I’m here,” she said.

He tipped his face up. “Hey.”

“Hey. What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t leave it the way we did last night.”

She shifted her gaze from his, to the open front door, then back. “Did you ring the bell?”

“The door was open.”

“What do you mean? Unlocked?”

“No, standing open.”

“But I shut it. I remember shutting it.”

“It was open, Mira. I don’t know what else to tell you. Maybe it didn’t close all the way and the wind blew it open.”

She’d heard it click shut. Besides, it wasn’t windy. The treetops beyond the door were still.

Was she losing her mind?

Or was everyone else going mad?

“I think you should go.”

He didn’t move. “You can believe whatever you want to believe. If you want to build an altar to Jeff, who am I to say you shouldn’t? I told you the truth last night, but I’ll take it all back if you want me to. If I can’t have your love, I’ll take your friendship.”

Mira gazed at him, the strangest sensation moving over her. A mixture of relief and … longing. To hold him. And be held by him.

Jeff was within her reach, closer than he had been in almost six years, and yet she stood here wondering what Connor’s mouth would feel like against hers.

And it wasn’t the first time. God help her, she had wondered the same thing way back, before Katrina and before Connor disappeared.

That New Year’s Eve kiss. It had sent her running for Jeff. Not because it had happened, but because her physical reaction had been anything but platonic.

“Jeff’s alive.” She blurted the words out as a defense against her thoughts. And against the urge to run down the stairs and throw herself at Connor.

His expression tightened. “For God’s sake, Mira! If you want me to leave so badly, I’ll go.”

“That’s not it! You don’t understand. Last night … he called me.” His pitying expression said it all and she held out a hand, pleading. “He called me last night. It was his voice, Connor. It was!”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I am. I see now, I shouldn’t have—”

She ran down the stairs to him. “I slept at Deni’s last night. This morning, I went upstairs. His side of the bed, he had been lying on it. There was an indentation in his pillow. It smelled like him. I’ll show you.”

She grabbed his hand and brought him upstairs with her. “See?” She crossed to the bed and grabbed the pillow. “Smell it, you’ll see.” When he hesitated, she asked again, pleading.

He brought it to his face, breathed in, then handed it back. “It smells like fabric softener.”

“No. And look.” She unpocketed her phone, pulled up the call history and handed it to him. “There, at 11:03
P.M.
He called.”

He looked at the display. “Did he leave a message?”

“No, I answered.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d be here soon. You know how he’d sometimes call me babe? That’s what he said. ‘Hi, babe.’”

Connor didn’t believe her. She saw it on his face. He turned to her, cupping her right cheek in his palm. The expression in his eyes made her want to cry.

She covered his hand with hers. His trembled slightly.

“Do you want him to be alive so badly, Mira?”

“It’s not that,” she whispered. “I promise you.”

He moved his hand to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I can’t compete with a ghost or a perfect memory. I’m just a man. Flesh and blood.”

He bent and pressed his mouth against hers, kissing her roughly. She responded instinctively, hungrily, tipping her head to better connect with his mouth, pressing herself against him.

And then it was over. He released her and she stumbled backward, not because of force, but because it felt as if her life had crumbled beneath her. Again.

“Flesh and blood,” he repeated. “If you decide that’s what you want, you know where to find me.”

“Wait!” she called after him. “I thought you said we could be friends.”

He stopped and turned back. “We can,” he said, his lips lifting. “But it’s not my first choice. And I have a feeling it’s not yours either.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Wednesday, August 17

8:05
A.M.

Mira knew the route from her Frenchmen Street home to the studio like the back of her hand. She had traveled from one point to the other in as little as fifteen minutes; she had made the trip while so exhausted she had arrived without memory of actually driving it.

But today she found herself taking a new path. Turning onto auxiliary streets, meandering, even at one point getting herself turned around.

After Connor had left, she had stood for a long time staring at the closed door, thinking of his kiss and the way she had responded to it. Thinking of the things he had said.

“I can’t compete with a ghost or a perfect memory … I’m just a man … Flesh and blood. If you decide that’s what you want, you know where to find me…”

She’d headed for the shower in the hopes of clearing her head. In the hopes that the water would wash away the way he had made her feel. Alive. In a way she hadn’t been in a long time. Like a sexual being.

And to wash off her sense of guilt. Like she had been cheating on her husband.

How could she cheat on a husband who was dead?

Maybe he wasn’t?

A cat darted into the street and Mira slammed on the brakes. As the car skidded to a stop, she glanced to her right, to the row of neat Creole cottages that lined the street. One jumped out at her: painted a soft blue with white trim, with its slightly sagging porch shaded by a blossom-covered crape myrtle tree.

In the front window hung a stained-glass panel.

One of hers. A fleur-de-lis and sunflower. The one she had sold to Detective Malone and his fiancée, Stacy. Maybe Detective Malone could help her? If he believed her, who better to help her find Jeff?

Or whoever was screwing with her head.

From behind her came the blare of a horn. She glanced apologetically in the rearview mirror, lifted her hand in acknowledgment and pulled to the side of the road.

She glanced at the cottage again. What she was thinking was nuts. Wasn’t it? But it was an option. And it seemed to her she didn’t have too many of them.

Without giving herself time to reconsider, she cut the engine, climbed out and headed to his door.

Mira recognized the woman who opened it. Blond, striking features. Like a tall Angelina Jolie but with less mouth and more nose.

Mira smiled. “Stacy?”

The woman’s expression grew guarded. She shifted her arm from the side to behind her back. “Can I help you?”

“I’m your neighbor from up and around the corner. Mira Gallier.” She indicated the stained-glass panel. “You bought your stained-glass piece from me.”

The other woman seemed to relax slightly. She smiled. “I remember. What can I do for you this morning?”

“I was looking for Spencer … Detective Malone.”

“I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

“Oh.” Mira took a step backward. “Okay. Sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t.” She smiled again. “Can I give him a message?”

“Don’t worry about it. It was stupid. I probably shouldn’t have stopped anyway.” Mira started down the stairs.

Stacy stopped her. “Wait. Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Mira looked back at her. “You could say that.”

“Let me give you his numbers. He’ll get back to you, I promise.”

“It’s okay. I have those. I was just driving by, saw the window and thought maybe he could help.” She shook her head. “Never mind. Again, sorry I bothered you.”

“You didn’t.” Stacy stepped out onto the porch. “Look, Mira, you seem really distraught. Maybe I can help you? I’m a cop, too.”

“I’d forgotten. How come you’re here and not at work?”

“I was shot. Six weeks ago. I’ve been recuperating.”

“That was rude, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, I’m not myself.”

“No problem.” She indicated the two chairs on the small front porch. “It’s not too hot yet. Sit down. We’ll talk.”

Mira didn’t hesitate. She didn’t know why, but something about the other woman calmed her.

Stacy took the chair closer to the door. “It’s been a long six weeks, Mira. Truth is, I’m about to go out of my flipping mind here. But with the doctor’s final okay, I’m heading back to work the end of the month. Would you believe on Monday the twenty-ninth?”

The sixth anniversary of Katrina
. “That doesn’t give you the willies?”

Stacy laughed. “The willies?”

“Like it’s bad luck or something?”

“It’s just a day, like any other.” They fell silent a moment. “Spencer mentioned you not too long ago.”

“He did?”

“He said someone had broken into your studio, something like that.”

“The flesh will be peeled from their bones, roasted and eaten by demons.”

She shuddered, recalling it. “Preacher. So much has happened since, it seems like a million years ago already.”

“He was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. So was Father Girod and Anton Gallier. My father-in-law.” She looked at Stacy. “I’m so confused. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Or who to believe in.”