Prologue
New Orleans
Four years ago…
The man who’d murdered Romain Fornier’s ten-year-old daughter didn’t look like a killer. He sat slumped in the courtroom with puffy bags beneath his eyes, a halo of mousy brown hair circling his otherwise bald head and jowls that hung lower than his chin. There were moments when even Romain couldn’t believe frumpy, middle-aged Francis Moreau had done something so vicious, moments when he glanced back over the days and weeks since Adele’s abduction and felt as if he was living someone else’s life.
The way the case had been going this morning, Romain had a feeling the nightmare was about to get worse.
The judge pounded his gavel, bringing the noise in the courtroom to an abrupt halt. It grew so quiet Romain could hear the defense counsel shuffling his papers.
“The law is very precise on this matter,” the judge announced. “The police may have obtained verbal approval from the proper authority, but they didn’t get the affidavit signed until after their search of the defendant’s home, which means the evidence found in that search is not admissible in court.”
Romain heard the gasps of his family. His parents sat on one side of him, his sister on the other. Without that evidence, we don’t have a case. The D.A. had said that over and over.
Romain leaned forward to whisper to Detective Huff, who sat a row in front of him. “Is this as bad as it seems?”
“Don’t worry,” Huff whispered back. But his voice sounded odd, almost strangled, and his expression didn’t promote much confidence. When a witness for the defense revealed that Huff had searched Moreau’s house without the correct paperwork, Huff’s face had flushed crimson. It was still crimson and several beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.
Although he felt desperate to make sense of what was happening, Romain was nonetheless distracted when the prosecutor asked to approach the bench. The judge waved both him and the defense counsel forward. They kept their conversation muted, but the way the D.A. gesticulated with his hands suggested he was in the middle of a heated argument.
This case couldn’t get away from them now, not when there was no doubt they had the right man, Romain told himself. But the D.A. didn’t seem happy when he finally returned to his table. Before sitting down, he searched the crowd, singling out Huff, whom he gave a look of such contempt Romain could hardly breathe.
“They’re going to let him off,” Romain said to no one in particular. His sister sat like a statue; his mother was crying, his father trying to comfort her. “He’s going to get off!” he repeated, and this time he gripped Huff by the shoulder to guarantee a response.
Huff twisted around to face him. A fan hummed in the corner. The air-conditioning had been out for two days and the weather had turned unseasonably warm for October. “He did it, Romain,” he said, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. “I saw the tape.”
Romain had seen part of the tape, too—as much as he could bear to watch.
Which was why he couldn’t understand this. How could the technicalities involved in serving a search warrant take precedence over a child’s life? His child’s life?
“They can’t let him walk,” Romain said. But the judge pounded his gavel, curtly announced that the D.A. was dropping all charges and exited the courtroom.
Stunned, Romain stood with his mouth agape as Moreau’s watery blue eyes cut to him and a victorious smile curved his lips. The sight of it made everything around Romain go black. For a few seconds, there were only the two of them, staring across the courtroom at each other.
“It’s the detective’s fault?” his mother was asking. “Why didn’t he get the affidavit signed before he searched?”
“Moreau knew the police had been tipped off. He would’ve destroyed the evidence if Detective Huff had waited,” his father said.
Huff must’ve heard them, but he kept facing forward. He was staring at Moreau, too, whose attention and “you lose” smile had shifted to the detective. Then the defense attorneys started shaking Moreau’s hand, congratulating him.
The crowd surged toward the door. Romain’s sister pulled on his arm, trying to get him to follow her. But he was rooted to the spot. The judge and the lawyers had to come back. This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be over. Moreau was a killer. He’d murdered a child. Romain’s child. And he’d do it again.
Romain wasn’t sure how he eventually got out of the courtroom. He didn’t remember making the decision to leave, walking toward the exit or passing through to the outside. He only remembered seeing the detective remove his jacket and swing it over his arm as they descended the steps—and sensing the presence of Huff’s gun in its holster as they moved side by side, jostled by the crowd and attacked by the media, who waited like a pack of wolves.
“Mr. Fornier, what do you have to say about seeing the man who allegedly killed your daughter go free?”
“Mr. Fornier! Mr. Fornier! Do you still believe Francis Moreau murdered Adele?”
“Can you tell me if you’ll pursue this in a civil proceeding?”
As one reporter after another shoved a microphone into Romain’s face, he saw Moreau a few feet away, pandering to the cameras—and suddenly craved the feel of a gun in his hand more than his next breath. He was an excellent marksman. At this distance, he’d scarcely have to aim. One pull of the trigger and he could fix the terrible mistake that had just been made.
And the next thing Romain knew, he heard a blast, Moreau fell to the ground and Detective Huff began forcing him to the hot, gritty concrete.
Chapter 1
Sacramento, California
The present
When Jasmine Stratford opened the package, she was standing in the middle of a crowded mall. Suddenly she couldn’t hear a single sound. The laughing, the talking, the click-clack of shoes on the colorful floor, the Christmas music that’d been playing in the background—it all disappeared as her ears began to ring.
“What is it?” Sheridan Kohl touched her arm, eyebrows gathered in concern.
The words came to Jasmine as if from a great distance, but she couldn’t speak.
Her lungs worked frantically, but her chest felt so tight she couldn’t expand her diaphragm. Sweat trickled down her spine, causing her crisp cotton blouse to stick to her as she stared at the silver-and-pink bracelet she’d just pulled from the small cardboard box.
“What is it, Jaz?” Still frowning, her friend took the bracelet from Jasmine’s cold fingers. As she read the name spelled out in silver letters separated by pink beads, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, God!” she murmured, pressing a hand to her chest.