The Stranger Next Door. Joanna Wayne

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      Prologue

      Danielle strolled down a side street of the famed New Orleans French Quarter. She shifted the bulk of her packages from one shoulder to the other and stretched the muscles in her neck. She was tired from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, but it was a good kind of tired. She’d spent the day sightseeing and shopping.

      And, of course, eating. Sugary beignets, steaming café au lait, shrimp po-boy sandwiches. By late afternoon, when she’d finally eaten and shopped her way from Jackson Square to the far end of Royal Street, she’d ducked into an open-air café and treated herself to a rum-and-punch drink that tasted far more innocent than it felt. She was just a tad giddy now, ready for a quick shower before she collapsed in front of the TV.

      By this time tomorrow, she’d be in Kelman, Texas. She’d be opening long-shut closets and rattling family skeletons that might be better left hidden away. She’d have been there today if she’d known her friend Beth was going to have to rush out of town on an unexpected family emergency. But there was no reason to change her flight plans. The day’s break gave her a chance to spend time in one of her favorite cities.

      She stopped at the corner to get her bearings. Her hotel was nearby—at least she thought it was. Fishing in her pocket, she pulled out the map she’d picked up at the hotel. She unfolded it, manhandling the unwieldy square of paper until she could catch enough illumination from the streetlight.

      Running her finger down the crease, she located the X that marked the location of the hotel. It was two blocks west of where she was standing and one block back toward the river. About two blocks more than she felt like walking but not far enough to justify taking a taxi.

      She turned down the side street, the most direct route. It was the same street she’d taken this morning when she’d left the hotel, but it looked different at dusk. Without the warming glow of the sun, the century-old buildings were stark and intimidating. Worse, the daytime crowd had gone home and the night revelers hadn’t appeared on the scene.

      Actually, there was no one around except a skinny guy leaning against a balcony support post a few yards in front of her. He stared at her openly and then took the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and dropped it to the street, grinding it beneath the toe of his scuffed shoe.

      The concierge’s warning ran through her mind. The Quarter is safe as long as you stay on the main streets, the ones populated with tourists.

      Apprehension quickened her pulse. She considered going back the way she had come, but the man turned and disappeared inside a doorway right behind him.

      She stopped at the corner, then crossed the street. One more block to the river. A boat whistle blasted in the distance. A series of car horns blared from the direction of Canal Street and footsteps sounded behind her. She spun around just as a man’s arm wrapped around her neck.

      “Let go of me!” His fist pounded against her skull. She stamped her feet and tried to twist free, but the man’s grip was like iron. “Who are you? What do you want?”

      He hit her again, and then she saw the blade of his knife. She kicked and tried to jerk away as he aimed it toward her chest. He missed his mark, but not completely. The blood was dripping from her side, running down her skirt and legs. She stretched her neck to get a glimpse of her attacker’s face. But he wore a ridiculous Mardi Gras mask. All she could see were his eyes. Cold. Angry.

      Her head was spinning. Her eyes refused to focus. And still he was hitting her with his horrible fists and dragging her away. Black walls closed in around her. And she was falling. Falling…falling…

      And finally there was…nothing.