Identity

“And are you attracted?”

“Physically? I’m a straight woman and he’s gorgeous, so of course. He can be blunt and broody, and I normally wouldn’t find that attractive, but it’s offset by something, I guess, kind. He doesn’t just walk me to my car—something he could pass off to someone else even when he’s around. He waits until I’ve driven away. It’s just an extra minute, but it’s considerate.”

“He’d have been raised to be a gentleman, to respect and value the people who work for him. He’d go out with Mick sometimes, hang with Steve in the shop.”

Olivia looked toward the woodshop, tucked into the trees at the back of the property.

She’d given his clothes away, changed his office, but she’d never been able to clean out his woodshop.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Miles always struck me as an old soul. Something in the eyes.”

“He’s got great eyes.”

“Mm-hmm. Would you be interested if he was?”

Morgan thought yes, then qualified. “Probably not smart to go there, is it? I do work for him. Not directly, but he’s one of the big bosses. I guess it was just nice to sit down and have a drink with a good-looking, interesting man. It’s been awhile. A really long while.”

“You should get out, meet more people your age.”

“Oh, Gram, I meet people all the time. Comes with the territory. I just haven’t met anybody I want to sit down and have a drink with. Right now? I’m okay with that. I’m feeling like me again, even with everything that happened, even with checking the damn tire pressure every night, I’m feeling like me again.”



* * *



Gavin Rozwell, now using the name Charles P. Brighton, strolled the French Quarter. He enjoyed the nightlife, the idiot tourists, the ridiculous drunks, and the ease of walking from the luxury of his hotel suite to shops, restaurants, music venues.

A man such as himself could blend so easily in the crowds.

He’d gone back to clean-shaven and had let his hair grow considerably. He’d dyed it a strong red as, in his experience, people would notice the mane of red hair and not much else.

If anyone were to ask, he’d come to New Orleans to research his novel, to allow himself to become absorbed in the culture, the ambiance of New Orleans.

Charles P. Brighton was a pompous ass, another character Rozwell enjoyed playing.

But despite his appreciation for the Vieux Carré, and the amusement of playing a pompous ass (with a tidy trust fund), he felt—as Charles would say—considerable ennui.

The last kill—RIP Robin—had left him oddly dissatisfied.

She’d been the perfect mark. Attractive, accommodating, trusting. With the loans he’d taken out on her house, accessing her bank account, what he’d netted on her spanking-new Hyundai, he’d cleared just over seventy thousand.

It had all been so easy.

Too easy, he thought now, strolling with his takeaway rum punch. No challenge whatsoever to play a woman so eager to start a relationship. And in Robin’s case, she hadn’t had close friends. The sister, yes, but they hadn’t lived in each other’s pockets.

She’d been prime for his skills, Robin had, and turned into a disappointment.

She’d nearly bored him brainless with her delight in his attention. While he’d been happy to kill her—at last—there’d been no crescendo, no rush.

It wasn’t only about the money, after all. The money provided the lifestyle he wanted and deserved. But the kill? The kill brought him to the buzz, the bang. It offered the glory he could live on for weeks, even months after.

But not Robin.

And not with Morgan Albright’s ridiculous roommate.

He needed that buzz, that bang, that fucking crescendo.

He deserved it.

Two women walked by him. Young, the one on the left a bit heavy in the ass for his taste. Tiny shorts, tiny crop tops—asking for it, no question. Add drunken laughter.

He could have killed them both, so easily really. Follow them into the next bar, strike up a conversation, pay for their drinks.

Entertaining the idea, he kept an eye on them. It wouldn’t take much, he mused. Lure them up to his hotel suite. Women thought they had safety in numbers. Easy to roofie them both if he had to. Or just disable Fat Ass, then play with the brunette awhile.

Since it gave him a much-needed lift to imagine it, he tossed the rum punch and slipped into a hole-in-the-wall behind them.

A crowded hole-in-the-wall where the beer ran cold and the zydeco hot. People rubbed asses, women shook their tits on a dance floor the size of a silver dollar.

Since they stood two deep at the bar, he had time to study them.

Fat Ass had the better face, and blond hair if he ignored the solid inch of black roots. But the brunette had the longer, slimmer build he preferred.

Mash them together, he thought, noting the women ordered gin fizzes, and get one winner. And wouldn’t housekeeping get a shock in the morning?

He started to step up behind them. Make that three! he’d say.

Boredom didn’t excuse stupidity, he reminded himself. He could kill them—oh yes, he could see exactly how he’d do it—but then he’d have to pack, leave the hotel, leave New Orleans, and with only what these sluts had in their pockets.

Not how he played the game.

He wandered out, but since he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind, stopped and bought a ball cap, a New Orleans Saints T-shirt, and a pair of goofy sunglasses.

Maybe mixing up the game would pull him out of his slump.

With his hair piled under the cap, the T-shirt layered over his own, and the sunglasses in place, he walked back into the hole-in-the-wall.

Fat Ass shook it on the dance floor. The brunette giggled with a couple of college-boy types at the bar.

He’d just order a beer, see if opportunity knocked.

Before he could, it knocked loud and clear when Fat Ass headed toward the back.

Maybe to pee, maybe to puke, but either way it looked like divide and conquer time to him.

He gave it a count of ten before he followed her back.

Plenty of people crowded on the dance floor, plenty of others massed at the bar or at the tables. The music pounded against the walls.

In his mind, he practiced the slurred Oops, wrong door if he found anyone else in the bathroom.

The music masked his entrance. No one stood at the single, wall-hung sink. Only one pair of feet showed under the stingy two stalls.

Opportunity knocked again, and louder.

He didn’t see any point in ignoring it.

He locked the door behind him.

Risky, definitely risky, but he needed that buzz, that bang.

The instant he heard the slide of the stall lock, he moved.

Her eyes popped when he pushed in the door. Big, almost beautiful brown eyes that glazed over when he smashed his fist into her face.

She barely made a sound as she slid down, and he went down with her, closed his hands over her throat.

“Look at me, Fat Ass. I want to watch the lights go out.”