Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher(6)

The cop replied, but the rumble of thunder swallowed his answer.

She hurried toward them, her fear making her move faster. Her feet slipped in the slick grass, but she didn’t slow down. In the middle of the storm, the uniformed cops looked like the safest port she’d ever seen.

The taller of the two opened the back of his patrol car. “Ma’am, why don’t you get out of the rain?”

Grateful, Lauren slid inside. But the cops didn’t follow her. They were staring over at her house, and she knew suspicion when she saw it.

“Why aren’t your lights on?” the cop nearest her asked. His face was round, his shoulders stooped just slightly.

“The power didn’t work,” she confessed. Her hands pressed over her jeans as she tried to wipe the moisture from her palms. Part rain and part plain old sweat and fear.

The cops had their guns drawn. She saw the quick nod they exchanged. The taller cop ran toward her house while his partner took up a position near Lauren.

Guarding her.

“We’re just gonna do a quick sweep,” he told her, flashing a grin that she was able to see in the glow of the patrol car’s interior lights. “To make sure that the area is secure.”

Right. Goose bumps had risen on her arms. It was an early summer night, warm despite the rain, and she was shivering.

A few moments later, the cop’s partner made it into her house. She could see the glow from his flashlight.

“I’m Officer Hank Lane,” the man standing near the open car door said. “And you don’t have anything to worry about, understand? You’re—”

The radio on his hip crackled. They both tensed as Hank picked up the radio.

“Get an ambulance,” his partner’s voice barked. “Get one now!”

Lauren… She shuddered when she remembered the whisper.

Her gaze flew back to the house. She tried to push out of the car, but Hank held her back. No one should have been inside her home.

Get an ambulance…

Someone had been there. In the dark. Waiting for her?

The cop’s grip tightened around her.

“Go inside,” she said, voice desperate. “Help him!”

Hank hesitated. Lauren pulled away from him. The man scrambled and called for backup and an ambulance.

She could almost smell his fear. He was a uniform, probably new to patrol duty, and he’d just thought he was heading out to pick up the DA for a little babysitting job.

Hank pointed at her. “Stay here, ma’am.”

No, no way. If someone was in there—possibly hurt—she had to help. She was the one to run toward those in need, never away. Helping victims was her job.

When he took off running, so did she.

Hank jumped up the back steps. He whirled when he heard her footsteps. “Ma’am, you’re supposed to stay—”

“We’re wasting time!” Her voice held the whip of command. She was the DA, dammit.

Gulping, Hank spun around and headed into the house.

She hurried behind him, using his flashlight to guide her. The milk had fallen to the floor. Spilled everywhere. Her tennis shoes slid through the white liquid. A few seconds later, she and Hank were in her narrow hallway. Then—

Her bedroom?

Hank’s flashlight hit the face of the officer. He was over Lauren’s bed. Crouched over the woman sprawled on Lauren’s covers.

A woman who wasn’t moving. A woman whose eyes stared sightlessly above her. A woman covered in blood.

So much bright, red blood.

The light hit the woman’s face. Lauren lost her breath. I know her. “Karen?” She tried to rush forward. No, no, that couldn’t be Karen.

Hank caught her arms. “No, you need to stay back!”

Because it was a crime scene. Because they were looking at a murder victim. Because they were looking at—

“Karen!” Her best friend. Sometimes…sometimes it seemed Karen was her only friend.

The wail of a siren reached her. It was the ambulance coming to help them.

Coming too late.

Because Karen Royce, Lauren’s best friend, was dead.



“Why did you have the knife, Lauren?”

Lauren’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. The coffee was ice-cold, pretty normal for the police station’s thick brew. It was late, edging toward two a.m., but she didn’t need the caffeine to keep her awake.

The image of Karen’s mutilated body could do that just fine.

“Lauren?” the detective pressed, his voice deepening as he tried to catch her attention.

Lauren sighed. “Do you really think we need to do the formal game?” She’d worked with Paul Voyt on dozens of cases. And right then, the guy actually had her in the interrogation room. Normally, they questioned the suspects together.

Now he was the one questioning her.

Paul exhaled heavily. Face grim, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we do. Karen Royce was stabbed at least five times, in your home, and officers on the scene reported that you raced out of your house holding a butcher knife.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache throbbed relentlessly behind her eyes. “There’s no blood on the knife. Or on me. Get the techs to check the weapon. They’ll see it wasn’t used.” Her lips wanted to tremble so she pressed them together as she straightened her shoulders. Then, when she hoped that the trembling had passed, Lauren said, “You can’t be looking at me for this crime. You know me, Paul.”