Forsaken Read Free Page B

dripping water and leaving a trail of blood. Halloween in New Orleans could be just as wild as Mardi Gras. He twisted the lock, jerked the knob. Night air rushed in, chilling his bare skin.
    â€œWhat kind of treats are you offering?” This was no costumed ghoul. His ex-partner gave him a once-over. “You could get arrested.”
    â€œYou can do the honors.”
    Without so much as a smile, Brody Wynne strode past Roc. Inches shorter and thicker through the chest and abdomen, Brody was nearly ten years his senior. “Get dressed.”
    â€œI’m busy.”
    Brody made a face, his gaze drifting downward. “Not interested in your love life. You still working nights at that daiquiri drive-thru place?”
    Roc plopped down on the sofa. “That illegal now?”
    â€œOh, it’s legal.” Brody shut the door. “Long as you’re not drinking on the job.”
    â€œI don’t need AA if that’s why you’re here.”
    Brody’s brow furrowed. “What do you need?”
    Roc shoved old pizza boxes out of the way to prop up his bleeding foot on the coffee table. “What do you want?”
    Brody stared down at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is work related.”
    â€œNot my line of work anymore. Or have you forgotten?”
    â€œDon’t play hard to get.”
    Roc turned the bottom of his foot toward himself and poked around on his heel, hissing as he felt the sliver of glass push deeper into his flesh.
    â€œLook, Roc, things got…crazy for a while. You don’t owe me or nothin’ but…”
    Roc yanked the glass sliver out of his foot and tossed it onto a grease-stained cardboard box. Then a cold finger trailed his spine. He glanced up at Brody. “If you’ve got my old man in the drunk tank or deep freeze, then that’s your problem. I washed my hands of Remy Girouard—”
    â€œOnly if your old man was twenty-something and looked a helluva lot like Emma.”
    ***
    Most cops had seen enough not to be shaken by the sight of a corpse. Some used humor to shield themselves, while others kept their gazes on the crime tape, the concrete, the faces of witnesses. Roc had always focused on the details—dirt beneath broken nails, blood-matted blond hair, fixed blue eyes. But this time, the details ripped through that protective barrier and rattled him to the core.
    It was precisely the blond hair and blue eyes that grabbed him. So like Emma. Too much like Emma. And yet not. But it was the gaping death wound that shook him like a limp rabbit in the jaws of a wolf.
    A trembling started deep within, creeping up on him, threatening him, overwhelming him. Yeah, he’d seen his share of dead bodies but only one had been his complete undoing.
    Brody stamped his feet and chafed his hands together. He stood next to Roc, studying him, not the corpse. Around them were majestic antebellum homes, gleaming white and polished during the day, but at night they darkened into shadowy mansions and creepy enclaves. “Somebody walking their dog found her. No purse. No ID.”
    An older detective walked the corpse’s perimeter. “I say she croaked, choking on a chicken wing or something, maybe an asthma attack, then a gator tore into her.”
    Brody tipped his head in the older guy’s direction. “This is Al Smith. We call him Smittie.” Then he rolled his eyes, dismissing the older man’s comments. “Could be a voodoo ritual,” Brody offered. “We thought that back when Emma—” But he stopped himself. “Roc?”
    He heard his name but it sounded far off, like Brody was calling him from Lake Pontchartrain. His chest tightened with each breath. The wound in the woman’s neck looked like someone had a hankering for a midnight snack. That part was just like Emma.
    Smittie frowned. “You that Roc Girouard I heard about?”
    â€œHow would he know what