Don't Say a Word. Rita Herron

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      Wonderful? If she only knew…

      But neither he nor Damon would discuss the mutilated corpse of the woman they’d discovered earlier, or the implications of his involvement. The unspoken rule—they left their weapons and gritty police talk at the door and didn’t bring either to the dinner table.

      Yep, act like a chameleon. Put on a pretty coat. Smile as if the world wasn’t all gray. Pretend not to have seen the monsters encountered in the bayou and on the streets.

      Damon cleared his throat, looking almost as uncomfortable as Antwaun felt. For the past year, he’d been even more solemn. Brooding at times. Almost distant.

      Daniella beamed with pride and ushered them into the homey kitchen. Already Jean-Paul and his new wife, Britta, his baby sister, Catherine, her daughter, Chrissy, and his other sister, Stephanie, had gathered. His father wore a chef’s hat and stirred the bubbling stew while Jean-Paul popped the cork on a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and poured them all a glass.

      Antwaun would have preferred a beer, but Jean-Paul wanted to make a toast.

      “Let’s all sit down.” Daniella Dubois waved her hands, shooing them to their places as she hoisted bowls full of the Cajun foods and carried them to the table. Catherine deposited baskets of steaming bread; Stephanie grabbed his and Damon’s arms, and dragged them to sit on either side of her; and Chrissy plopped down, her ponytail bobbing as she sipped freshly squeezed lemonade.

      “So, what is all this urgency, Jean-Paul?” dark-haired Stephanie asked, eyes twinkling.

      Jean-Paul clutched his bride’s hand and grinned like a cat that had just swallowed a canary. “Britta and I have an announcement.” He turned to his wife. “Britta?”

      Britta laughed. “Go ahead, you tell them, sweetheart.”

      Antwaun shifted uncomfortably. Not that he wasn’t happy for Jean-Paul, but seeing his tough brother act so mushy was just plain weird.

      His father, Pierre, tapped his wineglass. “Don’t keep us in suspense, son. Spill it.”

      Jean-Paul grinned, then pressed his wife’s hand to his chest. “Britta and I are expecting a baby.”

      Shouts erupted around the table. His mother dabbed tears from her eyes and jumped up to hug Britta and Jean-Paul. Catherine, little Chrissy and Stephanie joined the milieu of chattering excited voices.

      Antwaun stood and pounded Jean-Paul on the back in congratulations. Damon’s hand tightened around the wineglass in a white-knuckled grip. Then the glass shattered and red wine splattered all over the tablecloth, mingling with drops of blood spewing from Damon’s palm.

      

      DAMON BIT BACK A CURSE, and tried to mop up the spilled wine with his napkin.

      “Damon, oh, my good gracious!” Chaos erupted, and Damon noticed the blood. His mother rushed to retrieve a towel, and Stephanie grabbed his hand and wrapped her napkin around the jagged cut.

      “Are you all right, Damon?” she asked in a low voice.

      Stephanie had always been the perceptive one. Sometimes he thought she sensed things, maybe possessed a touch of ESP. Feeling panic tease at his nerves, he masked his thoughts. He couldn’t let anyone see inside his bleak, ugly mind.

      Besides, this was his brother’s moment. “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul. How clumsy of me. I didn’t mean to spoil your announcement.”

      His oldest brother’s eyes registered concern, but he shook off the apology and curved his arm around Britta’s shoulders. “No problem, bro. Are you all right?”

      Damon and Antwaun exchanged a glance, silently agreeing not to broach the latest challenge facing Antwaun. Hopefully the DNA would prove that the severed hand hadn’t belonged to Kendra Yates and clear Antwaun of any suspicion.

      But if the hand wasn’t hers, then whose was it? Had another serial killer surfaced—one who enjoyed hacking off women’s body parts and leaving them scattered all over the bayou?

      “Do you need stitches?” his father asked.

      Damon shook his head. “No, I’ll just clean it up. Please continue the celebration.”

      His mother trailed him to the kitchen, removed the first-aid kit and played nursemaid as if he were five years old again and had just had a bicycle accident.

      “What’s troubling you, son?” Daniella asked.

      He rinsed the droplets of blood down the drain, wishing he could rid his mind of the tormenting memories that dogged him daily. “Nothing, Maman, it was just a stupid accident.”

      She pierced him with a disbelieving frown. “There’s more, Damon. I’m your maman, you cannot lie to me.”

      A family portrait in oils that hung on the opposite kitchen wall mocked him. God, he had to lie to her. If she knew the truth about the things he’d done, who he had been in the service, she wouldn’t look at him with love in her eyes. No, she’d be sickened and appalled.

      Guilt clouded his vision, making the veins in his head pulse with tension. “This is Jean-Paul and Britta’s night, Maman. I want them to enjoy it.” He brushed a kiss on her chubby cheek. “And you, too. You’re about to be a grand-mère again.”

      His mother’s face beamed with excitement. “I know, is it not wonderful? I can not wait to have another bébé in the house.” She tweaked his cheek. “Maybe we’ll have a little boy this time, another man to carry on the Dubois name.”

      Damon’s throat thickened as he imagined the scene. His formidable older brother with an infant in his arms. Jean-Paul was a hero. He deserved a family. A son.

      But marriage and kids were not in the picture for him.

      A man who had destroyed a family, the way he had, had no right to one of his own.

      

      DESPAIR AND FEAR TINGED the frail sound of an infant’s cry as it reverberated through the air like the strings of a harp that needed careful tuning.

      Crystal jerked awake, her head swimming with confusion. A child…where? Had she dreamed the baby’s cry or had it been real? Or had it been a memory?

      Disoriented momentarily, she searched the dim light of her room for the doctor or the nurse. No. Maybe Lex had come to visit again.

      But all was silent. She was alone.

      The low sob echoed through the thin walls again as if the wind had captured the ghostly cry, beckoning her to listen. Reminding her that she wasn’t alone in her pain and suffering.

      Stiff from sleep, she stretched her limbs to force the circulation back around, an exercise she did routinely after her long hours in bed, then pushed her feet to the floor and into her slippers. She grabbed her thin cotton robe with one hand and shrugged it on, the other hand self-consciously touching the bandages on her face. At first she hadn’t ventured outside the room, but lately, as she’d begun to heal and regain her strength, she’d taken daily walks.

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