“Please don’t apologize. What you described is horrifying. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t upset.”

Emma gave her a small smile. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No.” Shaye’s response was immediate, and more importantly, the truth. “I think you’re traumatized, and rightly so, but I see no evidence of crazy. What about an alarm system? You didn’t mention one.”

“My aunt installed one right after Hurricane Katrina. Things got rough in the neighborhood for a while, and a senior living alone was an easy target. So it’s old, but it was working fine until two nights ago.”

“The night the man was in your house?”

Emma nodded. “I tried to set it before I went to bed and it was dead. We’d had a big storm that afternoon and lightning fried my satellite, so I figured it took out the alarm as well. At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself, but if I really believed it was all nothing, I wouldn’t have planned an escape route in my old bedroom. I wouldn’t have staged the master bedroom to look like I was sleeping there and had left through a window. Deep down, I knew something wasn’t right.”

“Did you go to the police after you saw the man?”

“Yes. First thing the next morning.”

“I take it they didn’t believe you.”

“An officer took my statement, and two detectives came to my house to check out the doors and windows. But with no sign of forced entry and no hard evidence, there was nothing they could do.”

“I have to ask, are you certain your husband died?”

Emma nodded. “He bled out. I know he did. And I saw the body before he was cremated. He was dead. I’d bet my RN license on it. But…”

“How could he be stalking you now?”

“Exactly.”

Despite the fact that Emma’s story was impossible, Shaye had already come up with a possible scenario. It was a matter of proving it. “I have an idea. I believe that you are being stalked, and that the man stalking you can’t be your husband. You saw him in the moonlight, and given the heightened state of emotion, you could have been mistaken. Maybe the man was similar enough in appearance for you to mistake him for your husband.”

“But the whistling.”

“He might not have had living relatives or close friends, but your husband didn’t live in a vacuum. If he turned on you, wouldn’t it make sense that others might have gotten the same treatment?”

Emma frowned. “Yes, that’s possible, sure, but why come after me? I don’t have much in liquid assets and have never had trouble with other people beyond the normal job kind.”

“That is what I’m going to find out.”

Emma blew out a breath. “So you’ll take the case?”

“Yes. But you’re going to have to discuss your husband at length. I’ll need to know everything about him in order to find out who else could have known details about him and about you.”

“Apparently, what I know about my husband is a whole lot of nothing, but I will do anything to stop this. Anything at all.” She glanced at her watch. “My shift starts in thirty minutes, though.”

“That’s okay. I’ll want to start checking into your husband’s background…coworkers, military buddies, anyone who might be able to shed some light on things.”

“Great. I’ll email you all his personal information. Will that work?”

“That’s fine. I’ll do some poking around and then call to schedule another meeting. Are you still staying in the home?”

“No. I booked a hotel close to the hospital. I’m afraid to go back home, but I can’t afford to live like a vacationer forever.” She sighed. “I’ve always loved that house, but now, I can’t imagine spending another night in it. I started thinking about selling right after I…right after David…”

Emma pulled a checkbook from her purse. “You’ll need a retainer. How much?”

“My rate is seventy-five an hour plus expenses. A thousand is fine for the retainer.”

“Is that enough time?”

“I won’t know until I get started, but let’s not worry about that now.”

Emma wrote a check and passed it to Shaye, then dug a business card from her purse and handed Shaye that as well. A number was handwritten on the back of it. “That’s my cell phone number. I can’t answer during shift—hospital rules—but I check it on breaks. If it’s critical, call the hospital and they’ll page me.”

Emma rose from the couch and pulled her purse over her shoulder. Shaye followed her to the front door. As Emma stepped outside, Shaye put a hand on her shoulder. “Ms. Frederick, can I ask you a question?”

“Please, we’ve got to be close to the same age. Call me Emma, and of course you can ask a question.”

“Why me? You could have hired someone with far more experience.”

Emma smiled. “A nurse I work with recommended you. She said you would believe me even when no one else would.”

Shaye frowned. “Who is the nurse that recommended me?”

“Clara Mandeville.” Emma turned and hurried off down the sidewalk. She jumped into a black Nissan Altima parked a couple buildings down and pulled out into the afternoon traffic. Shaye watched as the car faded into the distance.

Clara Mandeville. 

The name sent Shaye careering back nine years.

Back to the first day for which she had any memory.

Chapter Two

Corrine Archer poked her head inside Eleonore Blanchet’s office and gave her friend a pleading look. “Please tell me you don’t have a client coming anytime soon.”

Eleonore raised one perfectly arched eyebrow up and gestured to the chair in front of her ornately carved antique desk. “I cleared my afternoon.”

Corrine plopped into the cushy leather chair. “Am I that transparent?”

Eleonore smiled. “I’ve known you for twenty-six years. I’ve written prescriptions for people I’ve known less than an hour.”

“That’s comforting.” But not untrue. Eleonore had been working her way through medical school when she’d taken the position of tutor and nanny to a twelve-year-old Corrine, who’d just lost her mother. The two had bonded so well that the friendship continued after Eleonore finished medical school. Eleonore was the one person in the world, besides her father and Shaye, who Corrine completely trusted.

Eleonore turned to open the credenza behind her and pulled out a snifter and an individual serving of scotch. She poured it in the glass and pushed it across the desk along with a package of shortbread cookies.

Corrine sighed and lifted the glass for a sip. “It’s really unnerving…having someone know you so well.”

“Especially when you’re not sleeping with them.”

“If my dry spell continues, I might consider it.”

Eleonore snorted. “You’re not having a dry spell. It’s a voluntary drought. Things are probably starting to wither.”

“I am not withering. Jesus, Eleonore.”

“Uh-huh. When was the last time you had a date?”

Corrine frowned, searching her mind for something that could be passed off as date-like. “Last month. The art festival,” she said, feeling slightly triumphant that she’d come up with something to pass muster.

“The art festival that you helped sponsor? Where your ‘date’ was one of the artists? The very gay artist?”

Damn it. Was there anything that happened in New Orleans that Eleonore didn’t know about? “We had dinner and he held my hand,” Corrine argued.

“The word ‘date’ implies the potential for romance. You weren’t sporting the right equipment, honey.”

“Fine. Then I have no idea when my last date was. Does sometime after puberty narrow it down?”

Eleonore shook her head. “You and I both know that if you wanted male company, there is no shortage of men who’d take you up on an offer.”

“Of course. But would they be interested in Corrine Archer, social worker and general worrywart, or that Corrine Archer, daughter of a state senator and sole heir to Archer Manufacturing?”