Like history, some crimes are doomed to repeat themselves. Evil stays the same; only the victims’ names change. As two broken pasts collide in an uncertain present, Polly is determined that her children’s names will never be on that list.
were going to break. Nobody’d seen it coming. Red hadn’t seen it coming. Though, afterward, she did remember the cards had been running dark most of that August. Red knew the blonde, too. Not by name and not to talk to. But she knew her by sight. Blondie was a regular. Came about once a month. After getting her cards read, she’d sit in the park with a book, or sometimes just watch the people going by. This wasn’t the first time a man had come up to her, but this was the first time she’d ever
playfulness Marshall lacked. “Who’s the lady, Marsh?” he called. Marshall had not mentioned her to his brother. Not a good sign, Polly thought and was annoyed that she was looking for signs. Marshall made the introductions from where they stood, outside the fence. Only when Danny invited them in for a drink before dinner did he reach for the gate. Because this was New Orleans, and Anne Rice had educated the world on the habits and manners of the undead, it crossed Polly’s mind that vampires
sink to avoid the face in the mirror. A kitten. Why in God’s name did she want to get Gracie a kitten? If he’d stuck a Chihuahua in the freezer what would he do with a cat? Deep-fry it? Jesus. Vertigo caught him on the crest of a wave, and he held onto the sink to keep from falling. The razor was between his hands, the mirror waiting for him to look into it. Turning, he half fell into the upstairs hall. Seventeen more steps and he’d be at his office. Despite what he’d told Polly, he hadn’t
of him. I believe the slaying of his wife and unborn child destroyed him from within, and because of that, he bungled it, was captured, and sentenced to death. I would hope my fiction would not demand such a price should it be threatened. 27 Harsh sun highlighted fine lines in Polly’s face, invisible even two weeks before—the velvet glove of autumn over the iron fist of summer. Glare forced her to narrow her eyes and the heat pressed down. She should have worn a hat. Any southern woman
Crying out, Marshall gathered it up gently, as if it were a living thing, and carried it over to the bed. The box had belonged to their mother. She kept it on her dressing table. Since the police had dragged him from the house, it was the first and only relic Marshall had seen from his old life. He’d refused anything from the house. He kept no pictures, and he never asked what Danny did with the place or its furnishings. Danny had inherited a chunk of money, as well as the house, when their