I sip my coffee and grin.
I don’t know what spell Millie casts on these so it stays warm until the last sip, but I love it.
I’m having a damn good day.
When I reach the car, I open the back door first to set my big bag in the back seat, and then I sit in the driver’s seat and fasten my belt.
Only to look up into an eyeless face.
I scream, my coffee falling and spilling all over the front of me. It takes me a full twenty seconds to realize that what I’m staring at is a photo.
A polaroid.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter and push my fingers into my eyes. “Scared the hell out of me.”
I don’t bother to take the photo out from beneath my windshield wiper. I don’t want to touch it. Instead, I fire up the engine and call Cash.
“Hey, Daph.”
“I’m staring at a photo of a woman with no eyes,” I say by way of greeting. My heart still feels as if it’s pounding out of my chest. “And I’m driving to you.”
“Where are you?”
“Five minutes away. Meet me out front.”
I do my best to ignore the face and the fact that I’m now wearing my delicious coffee, and hurry through traffic to the police department.
When I pull up out front, Cash is waiting for me on the steps.
“Jesus, why didn’t you move it so you didn’t have to stare at it?”
I shake my head as I get out of the car. “Because I don’t want to touch it.”
“Wait, do you see things when you touch the photos?”
I stop, suddenly stunned. “Actually, no. I don’t see anything at all. I just feel the heartbeat. The warmth.”
“That’s creepy enough,” he says grimly. “You haven’t touched that at all?”
“Nope. It’s a virgin, just waiting for you.”
“Just like I like them—don’t tell your sister I said that.”
I grin and watch as he slips on gloves and gingerly takes the photo out from under the wiper blade.
He flips it over to look down at it.
“God, she’s young.”
“I noticed.” I lean to look over his shoulder. Naked shoulders and her head are all that show in the black and white photo. “The timestamp.”
“Tomorrow,” he says with a nod. “He hasn’t killed her yet.”
“I hate this so fucking much,” I growl. “I hate knowing that he has her, however that’s possible, and is doing horrible things to her. That he’s going to torture her and kill her. We don’t know who she is, or how to find her. I hate feeling so helpless.”
“I know,” Cash says. “Trust me, I know. I’ll run her. We might get lucky.”
“I love your optimism.”
“I’m going to do everything I can to find her before he kills her,” Cash promises and leans in to kiss my forehead. “Should we call the others?”
“No.”
I blow out a breath when he just raises his brows in surprise as if to say: You’ll be in trouble.
“Seriously, this is starting to happen so often that if we get together every time, we’ll always be together, and no one has time for that, Cash. I’m going back to work. I need to change these clothes and get on with my life.”
“Okay. At least tell the others, Daph. They need to know.”
“Yeah. I will. See you later.”
I climb back into the car, relieved that the photo is gone. The drive to my shop takes longer than normal in traffic, and by the time I park in my spot and walk into Reflections, I’m in a very surly mood.
“Hey,” Jack says with a grin but then sobers when he catches sight of me. “What happened?”
“I need to change,” I reply and march straight into my office where I have a spare outfit waiting—just for times like this.
He follows me and doesn’t turn away as I start to strip out of my soiled clothes.
He swallows hard when I’m down to my bra and panties.
He’s been staying with me, sleeping with me for several days, but aside from some stolen kisses, there hasn’t been any sex.
We’re both exhausted, physically and emotionally, by the time we fall into bed.
But I can see by the light in his eyes that he’d like to change that very soon.
“Tell me what happened,” he says.
“I got coffee at Witches Brew,” I reply. “Went to see Mallory, picked up some fun things. We’re going to Inn Boudreaux for a thing next week, by the way.”
“A thing.”
“That’s right, a thing.” My voice is snappy now, but I don’t care. “Then I went back to my car, and there was a creepy-ass photo staring at me through the windshield. I’m getting really sick and tired of these photos, Jack. People missing their eyes is just…wrong.”
“I won’t argue that. Where’s the picture?”
“I took it to Cash.” I walk past him to the little kitchenette I have for coffee emergencies and start to make a cup.
“Without showing the rest of us?”
I scowl and wait impatiently for my coffee to brew.
“It’s just like the others. Well, except he’s not going to kill this one until tomorrow.”
“Shit,” he mutters and stalks around the kitchenette. “Male or female?”
“A woman.” My voice is softer now. “She’s pretty. And he’s going to kill her. And, frankly, I’m sick to death of being scared. And worried. And drinking potions in my fucking coffee.”
I pour cream into the brew, give it a quick stir, and take a sip.
“I’m tired of this, Jack. Of feeling like I’m walking on eggshells. Hell, I can’t even walk through the French Quarter to buy some damn soap without him scaring the shit out of me. I dropped my coffee all over myself, and it was just awful. Millie insists I drink her potions, but I just want coffee. That’s it. Just caffeine and angel tears in a cup.”
“Okay.”
He wraps his arms around me and cradles my head against his chest, clearly aware that I’m in the middle of a mental breakdown.
Jackson always did give the best hugs around.
“I’m sorry.” He rocks me back and forth. “You’re right. It’s all bullshit. I hate that you’re scared and being tormented. I want to hunt the bastard down and kill him all over again, just for that alone. It’s not right.”
“He ruined my morning.” I sniff against him. “I was having a great day.”
“You still will,” he says and kisses my hair. “Especially when I tell you I sold that blue chair over there for the full asking price.”
My eyes follow his hand, and I nod. “Yeah, that’s good news. And I heard from the builder for Mama’s house when I was on my way to Millie’s earlier. They can start pouring the foundation next week.”
“See? It’s still a good day. Letting him mess everything up every time he does something like this is only making him happy,” he reminds me. “Let’s not give him that satisfaction.”
“It might make him escalate,” I warn him. “He tends to throw tantrums.”
“I don’t care about his tantrums. I care about you and your mental well-being.”