âI donât remember ever being held, being kissed.â Tears welled in her eyes. âHow can I not remember anything?â
âI donât know.â The thought that heâd been the first man in her memory to touch her lips with his was so erotic and at the same time so humbling.
He touched her shoulder and she stepped into his arms again. He nuzzled her silky, sweet-smelling hair. âThe theory of amnesia is that youâre blocking out memories that are too painful or too awful to deal with. Itâs called dissociative amnesia. Itâs generally caused by a traumatic event.â
Her hand went to her temple. He wasnât sure if she was touching the scar or massaging a headache.
âI promise you. Iâm going to find out who did this to you and Iâm going to make sure he pays.â
MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.
She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.
Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at [email protected].
Twelve Years Ago
It was an ugly crime scene. Not that newly appointed Detective Dixon Lloyd had seen manyânone as a detective, but this one was worse than most. He could tell by the other officersâ faces.
Blood was smeared on walls, on floors, on the snow-white sheets on the young womanâs bed. A terry cloth robeâs sash had been cut in two and tied to the two headboard posts. Dixon grimaced as his stomach churned.
He stepped into the bathroom, which didnât help his queasiness. Water filled the large spa tub about two-thirds full. A glass of white wine sat on the imported Italian tile surrounding the tub and a pale ivory candle had burned down to the wick.
The room appeared ready for the beauty to sweep in, slide an elegant dressing gown off her shoulders and sink into the warm, pleasantly scented water.
Only the water wasnât warm or pleasantly scented. It was cold. And red. Bloodred.
Dixonâs gaze zeroed in on the smeared handprint on the tile near the glass. She must have reached for it, hoping to break it and use it as a weapon. But the smear stopped two inches from the base of the glass. She hadnât been quick enough. He swallowed acrid saliva as a vision of what must have happened rose in his brain. He tried to concentrate on searching for anything unusual about the scene, other than the obvious.
ââmake of it?â It was the voice of his partner and mentor, veteran detective James Shively, talking to the crime scene investigators in the bedroom.
âHard to say,â the CSI replied. âThereâs blood smeared everywhere, but the only spatter is on the bed. Iâd guess he used a slender blade.â
âYeah,â Shively said. âHow much blood are we talking about?â
âWith the blood in the bathwater and who knows how much down the drain, not to mention all this rain going down the sewer drains, too, itâs going to be hard to tell.â
Dix looked back at the tub. Down the drain. The killer must have surprised her in the bedroom, tied her to the bed and tortured her, then thrown her in the tub so that her lifeblood dripped down the drain.
âSay, Shively,â the CSI went on, âthe name on the apartment is Rosemary Delancey. Wasnât she Queen of Carnival this past Mardi Gras?â
âYeah, not to mention the oldest granddaughter of Con Delancey.â
âOh hell,â the CSI breathed as Dixon joined them. Dixon had heard of the Delanceys. Of courseâwho hadnât? Everyone around here knew who they were. Con Delancey, the late, infamous senator from Louisiana, was as famous as Huey Long and his brother in this part of the country. And as scandalous.
Con Delanceyâs granddaughter had been murdered. Which meant that this story would headline local and national news tomorrow and who knew how many more days. And the department would be under the gun to catch the killer. He raised his gaze to Shivelyâs.
âYeah,â Shively said and nodded, reading his mind. âWelcome to Homicide, Lloyd. Youâre in luck. Your first homicide investigation is going to be the most sensational murder New Orleans has seen in a long time.â
Dixon glanced at the bed. On the floor beside the bedside table was a small gold photo frame. It lay facedown and he could see shards of glass surrounding it. He picked it up and turned it over. The girl in the picture had on a gaudy tiara and was dressed in a silver evening gown. Over her head was a banner that read âQueen of Carnival.â