A fresh spring of hate for Ross Leighton welled up inside Laurel, and she recognized that a large part of her anger was for the fact that Ross had never been made to pay for his crime. Justice had never been served. Some of the blame for that was hers, she knew, and the guilt for that was terrible.

If only she had found the courage to tell their mother or go to Aunt Caroline. But she hadn't. Vivian was still in ignorance of her husband's atrocities. Caroline had found out the truth years after the fact. There had been no justice for Savannah… so Laurel had spent her life seeking justice for others.

I'm not trying to atone for anything!

God, what a lie. What a hypocrite she was.

Caroline rose gracefully from her chair, tucking her letters into a patch pocket on the full yellow skirt that hugged her tiny waist and swirled around her calves. She came around the table and slipped her arms around Laurel 's shoulders, hugging her tight from behind. "The past is always with us, Laurel," she said gently. "It's a part of us we can't ignore or abandon. And it's not always easy to keep it behind us, where it belongs. You'd do well to remember that for yourself, as well as for your sister."

She pressed a kiss to her temple and went inside, leaving Laurel alone on the gallery to listen to the birdsong and to think.

When her thoughts had chased one another around her brain sufficiently to give her a headache, Laurel turned her attention back to the mail, thumbing through the bills and pleas from missions. At the back of the stack was a plain white envelope with no address, return or otherwise.

Puzzled, she opened the flap and extracted not a letter, but a cheap gold necklace with a small golden butterfly dangling from it. She lifted the chain and watched the butterfly turn and sway, and a strange shiver passed over her, like a chill wind that had slipped out of another dimension to crawl over her skin.

The wheels of her mind turned automatically, searching for the most logical explanation for the necklace. It was Savannah 's-though Savannah 's tastes were much more expensive. Laurel had forgotten it on the seat of the car-but why was it sealed in an envelope?

No answer satisfied all the questions, and none explained the knot of nerves tingling at the base of her neck.

In his office in the Partout Parish courthouse, Duwayne Kenner leaned over his desk, hammers pounding inside his temples, acid churning in his gut. He leaned over the fax copies of crime reports from four other parishes. His eyes scanned the photographs the sheriff from St. Martin had brought along with him of Jennifer Verret, who had been found dead Saturday morning, strangled with a silk scarf and mutilated. On the other side of the desk, Danjermond stood looking pensive, twisting his signet ring around on his finger.

"There's no doubt in my mind," Kenner growled, his voice turned to gravel by two packs of Camels. "We're dealing with the same killer."

"Everything matches?"

"So far. We'll have more details when the lab reports on Annie Gerrard come in, but it's all there-the silk scarf, the same pattern of knife wounds. Most importantly, details that were kept away from the press match, eliminating the possibility of a copycat."

"Such as?"

"Such as the markings on the wrists and ankles, and the fact that each woman had items of jewelry taken off her body. Sick bastard likely keeps them as souvenirs," he mumbled, his eyes narrowing to slits as he took in the savagery one human being could commit against another. "Well, by God, I'll find out when I catch him. I swear I will."