Chapter 1
Battle not with monsters
lest ye become a monster
and if you gaze into the abyss
the abyss gazes into you.
--Friedrich Nietzsche, German philosopher
Prologue
New Orleans
Four years ago…
The man who’d murdered Romain Fornier’s
ten-year-old daughter didn’t look like a killer. He sat
slumped in the courtroom with puffy bags beneath his eyes, a
halo of mousy brown hair circling his otherwise bald head and
jowls that hung lower than his chin. There were moments when
even Romain couldn’t believe frumpy, middle-aged Francis
Moreau had done something so vicious, moments when he glanced
back over the days and weeks since Adele’s abduction and
felt as if he was living someone else’s life.
The judge pounded his gavel, bringing the noise
in the courtroom to an abrupt halt. It grew so quiet Romain
could hear the defense counsel shuffling his papers.
“The law is very precise on this matter,”
the judge announced. “The police may have obtained verbal
approval from the proper authority, but they didn’t get
the affidavit signed until after the search of defendant’s
home, which means the evidence found in that search is not admissible
in court.”
Romain heard the gasps of his family. His parents
sat on one side of him; his sister sat on the other. Without
that evidence, we don’t have a case. The D.A. had
stated that over and over.
Romain’s muscles bunched as he leaned forward
to whisper to Detective Huff, who sat a row in front of him.
“Is this as bad as it seems?”
“Don’t worry,” Huff whispered
back. But his voice sounded odd, almost strangled, and his expression
didn’t promote much confidence. When a witness for the
defense revealed that Huff had searched Moreau’s house
without legitimate paperwork, Huff’s face had flushed
crimson. It was still crimson and several beads of sweat had
popped out on his forehead.
Desperate for definitive answers, Romain was nonetheless
distracted when the prosecutor asked to approach the bench.
The judge waved both him and the defense counsel forward. They
kept their conversation muted, but the way the D.A. gesticulated
with his hands suggested that he was in the midst of a heated
argument.
This case couldn’t get away from them now,
not when there was no doubt they had the right man, Romain said
over and over to himself. But the D.A. wasn’t happy when
he finally returned to his table. Before sitting down, his eyes
searched the crowd, singling out Huff, whom he gave a look of
such contempt Romain could no longer breathe.
“They’re going to let him off,”
Romain said to no one in particular. His sister sat like a statue;
his mother was crying, his father trying to comfort her. “He’s
going to get off!” he repeated, and this time he gripped
Huff by the shoulder to guarantee a response.
Huff twisted to face him. A fan thrummed in the
corner. The air-conditioning had been out for two days and the
weather had turned unseasonably warm for October. “He
did it, Romain,” he said, mopping his forehead with a
handkerchief. “I saw the tape.”
Romain had seen part of the tape, too—as
much as he could bear to watch. Which was partly why he couldn’t
wrap his mind around this. How could the technicalities involved
in serving a search warrant take precedence over a child’s
life? His child’s life?
“They can’t let him walk,” Romain
said. But the judge pounded his gavel, curtly announced that
the D.A. was dropping all charges and exited the courtroom.
Stunned, Romain stood with his mouth agape as Moreau’s
watery blue eyes cut to him and a victorious smile curved his
colorless lips. Sight of it caused everything around Romain
to go black. For a moment in time, there was only the two of
them, staring across the courtroom at each other.
“It’s the detective’s fault?”
his mother was asking. “Why didn’t he get the affidavit
signed before he searched?”
“Moreau knew the police had been tipped
off. He would’ve destroyed the evidence had Detective
Huff waited,” his father responded.
Huff must’ve heard them, but he kept facing
forward. He was staring at Moreau, too, whose attention and
“you lose” smile had shifted to the detective. Then
the defense attorneys started shaking Moreau’s hand, congratulating
him.
The crowd surged toward the door. Romain’s
sister started pulling on him, trying to get him to follow her.
But he remained rooted to the spot. The judge and the lawyers
had to come back. This wasn’t over. It couldn’t
be over. Moreau was a killer.
Since he’d been so determined to stay, he
wasn’t sure how he eventually got out of the courtroom.
He didn’t remember making the decision to leave, walking
toward the exit or passing through to the outside. He only remembered
seeing the detective remove his jacket and swing it over his
arm while they descended the steps--and sensing the presence
of Huff’s gun in its holster as they moved side by side,
jostled by the crowd and attacked by the media, who waited like
a pack of wolves.
“Mr. Fornier, what do you have to say about
seeing the man who allegedly killed your daughter go free?”
“Mr. Fornier! Mr. Fornier! Do you still
believe Francis Moreau murdered Adele?”
“Can you tell me if you’ll pursue
this in a civil proceeding?”
As one reporter after another shoved a microphone
into Romain’s face, he saw Moreau only a few feet away,
pandering for other cameras—and suddenly craved a gun
in his hand more than his next breath. He was an excellent marksman.
At this distance, he’d scarcely have to aim. One pull
of the trigger and he could fix everything that’d just
gone so terribly wrong.
And the next thing Romain knew, a blast rent the
air, Moreau fell to the ground, and Detective Huff began forcing
him to the hot, gritty concrete.
Chapter 1
Sacramento, California
The present...
When Jasmine Stratford opened the package, she
was standing in the middle of a crowded mall, but suddenly she
couldn’t hear a single sound. The laughing, the talking,
the click-clack of shoes on the colorful floor, and the Christmas
music that’d been playing in the background, disappeared
as her ears began to ring.
“What is it?” Sheridan Kohl touched
her arm, eyebrows gathered in concern.
The words finally came to Jasmine as if from a
great distance, but she couldn’t speak. Her lungs worked
frantically, but her chest grew so tight she couldn’t
expand her diaphragm. Sweat trickled down her spine, causing
her crisp cotton blouse to stick to her as she stared at the
silver and pink bracelet she’d just pulled from the small
cardboard box.
“What is it, Jas?” Frowning, her friend
took the bracelet from Jasmine’s cold fingers. As she
read the name spelled out with letters separated by pretty pink
beads, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh God!” she
murmured, pressing a hand to her chest.
Jasmine’s head spun. Afraid she might pass
out, she reached for Sheridan, who helped her to the center
of the mall and asked a man sitting in one of the few seats
to move.
He gathered the shopping bags piled at his feet
and jumped up, allowing Jasmine to sink into the plastic, scooped
out chair.
“Hey, she no looking good, eh? She sick
or somet’ing?” he asked.
“She’s just suffered a terrible shock,”
Sheridan explained.
The words floated over Jasmine as if they’d
been written in the air, each letter flying past her without
triggering a response. Her nervous system seemed to be shutting
down. Overload. Rejection of current input. Refusal to cope.
“Don’t move,” Sheridan barked
and put the bracelet back in the box on her lap. “I’ll
get you something to drink.”
Jasmine couldn’t have moved even if she
wanted to. Her rubbery legs refused to support her weight, or
she would’ve walked out of the mall. People were beginning
to stare.
“What’s wrong?” someone murmured,
pausing near the Mexican man who was still watching her curiously.
“I don’t know, but she no look good,
eh?” he repeated.
A teen-age boy ventured closer. “Are you
okay, lady?”
“Maybe someone should call the paramedics,”
a woman said.
Wave them away. But Jasmine’s thoughts
were so focused on what was in her lap, she couldn’t move.
She’d made that bracelet for her little sister. She remembered
Kimberly’s delight when she unwrapped it on her eighth
birthday, her last birthday before the tall man with the beard
entered their house in Cleveland one sunny afternoon and took
her away.
Jasmine’s mind veered away from the memories.
Until she was twelve, she’d led such a safe and happy
life she’d never dreamed she would encounter a threat
in her own home. Strangers were those people outside on the
street. This man had acted like one of her father’s workers,
the faces of which changed so often she never grew familiar
with them all. They were always coming to the house to pick
up equipment for his satellite TV business, to get a check,
to drop off some paperwork. Occasionally he hired vagrants to
organize his warehouse or build a fence or even clean up the
yard. Regardless, she’d believed their visitor was a nice
guy.
Heaven help her, she’d believed he was nice.
And she’d let it happen....
“You want I should call for help?”
the Mexican man ventured.
Jasmine had to cover her mouth so the screams
inside her did not escape. Breathe deep. Get a hold of yourself.
After nearly destroying each other with their bitterness and
grief, her parents had given up hope. But she’d kept a
candle burning deep inside. And now this...
Sheridan returned and nudged her way through the
four or five people who were watching to see if Jasmine would
rally. “I’ve got her. Everything’s fine,”
she told them, and they began to drift off, but not without
a backward glance. “Drink this,” she said.
The freshly squeezed lemonade tasted reassuringly
normal.
A man seated next to them stood and offered Sheridan
his chair. She thanked him and perched on the edge of it.
After a few minutes, Jasmine’s breathing
and heart rate slowed. Still, she was damp with sweat and when
she tried to talk tears slipped down her cheeks.
“It’s okay.” Putting an arm
around her, Sheridan squeezed her shoulders. “Take all
the time you need.”
Jasmine appreciated her friend’s empathy,
but now that the shock was wearing off she had so many questions.
Who had sent the bracelet? Why had they sent it after so long?
What’d happened to her sister? And, the biggest question
of all—was there any chance that Kimberly could
still be alive?
“I’m so sorry I brought that package
with me, that you had to deal with this in a public setting.”
Sheridan’s expression revealed her chagrin. “When
I saw it sitting on the reception desk with the rest of the
mail, I thought it might be something you’ve been waiting
for. I knew you weren’t planning on coming to the office
today so I was...” she shrugged helplessly “...trying
to be helpful.”
Jasmine wiped her tears. “It’s okay.
Of course you’d never expect something like this.”
“Who sent it?”
“I don’t know.” She studied
the box. There was no return address. There wasn’t even
a note, just some crumpled packaging material--
Jasmine’s pulse spiked. Wait a minute...
There was something written on one of the papers that’d
been wadded up.
Being careful not to tear the note or put her
fingerprints all over it, she flattened it out--and saw two
words printed in what appeared to be blood: “Stop me.”
