It was every bit as awkward saying goodbye to Romain’s parents as it’d been saying hello. Maybe more so.
“I’m glad you came,” his mother said, hugging Jasmine at the door.
“Thank you. Dinner was fabulous.”
“I wish you hadn’t brought the bike.” Alicia frowned as she released Jasmine and pulled her son into her arms. “I have all these leftovers I could’ve sent home with you.”
“You have Susan’s family here. They’ll help you eat them,” he said.
“She’s a lovely girl,” Alicia told Romain in such a loud whisper that Jasmine heard every word. “Don’t let her get away.”
Romain didn’t respond, and Jasmine didn’t have a chance to check his expression before his father hugged her, too. “I hope we get to see a lot more of you.”
“I’d like that,” she said and was surprised to find it was true. Romain’s parents were great. She could tell how much they loved each other and their children and was jealous of Pam all over again. Pam had fit in here; she’d belonged with Romain.
Jasmine had never really belonged anywhere. Not since Kimberly disappeared.
“It’s getting colder,” Romain said as he straddled the bike. “We should go.”
Jasmine glanced back at the house, feeling bad that Romain and Susan had given each other only a tight-lipped goodbye. Tom had been in the den on the phone with some other member of his family; Jasmine had simply told Susan to say goodbye for her. The boys, except for Travis, who’d paused his game to run over and hug his uncle, had waved from where they sat in front of their PlayStation 2.
“Zip up that jacket,” Romain warned.
She dutifully fastened the leather coat he’d lent her, and he started the engine.
She expected him to drive off, but he put the kickstand down almost as soon as he’d put it up.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as he got off.
“I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the house, nudging past his parents, who were at the door to give them a final wave.
When he came back, his jaw was still set, but he seemed somehow relieved.
She lifted the mask on her helmet. “Where’d you go?”
“I had something to say to Tom.”
“Goodbye?” she teased.
“I told him he’d better not cheat on my sister again or he’d have me to answer to.”
Jasmine felt her eyebrows go up. “Did Susan hear you?”
“I don’t care if she did. I won’t allow him to continue treating her the way he has—or he’s going to suffer a little himself.”
Jasmine smiled. Romain’s family was worried about him. But he was healing.
He was finding his way back.
Jasmine put the disc Susan had given her into Romain’s DVD player while he was out baiting and lowering crawfish traps. Evidently, the season started in winter.
Because much of his food came from the swamp and not the small market where he purchased staples like flour and sugar, he had to take care of a few things before the day ended.
In any case, they’d already decided to wait until morning to head to New Orleans. There wasn’t any rush, at least for today. The lab was closed, so she couldn’t call and press them for information on the items she’d dropped off. Her appointment with the sketch artist wasn’t until the day after tomorrow. And, with Sergeant Kozlowski off for Christmas, she doubted she’d be able to get any information out of the police about the man she’d found in the Moreaus’ cellar. She had some research she wanted to do on Phillip, Dustin and Beverly Moreau and Pearson Black, but she couldn’t knock on the doors of their friends and family on Christmas night. She could search the Internet for public records, but that wouldn’t take long, and morning would be soon enough. Which meant they’d be staying at Romain’s place another night.
Jasmine wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she knew it would be safer than returning to the hotel—and a waste of money to get another room when they already had shelter.
A newscaster’s voice suddenly boomed out, and Jasmine jumped up to grab the remote and turn down the volume. Checking traps sounded like it might take a while, depending on how far away they were, but she wanted to be as quiet as possible, in case he was anywhere near the house. There was no point in letting Romain know she had this clip until she’d seen it and determined its value to her investigation.
The grainy picture had a superimposed red stripe at the bottom of the screen that read, Shocking Reversal In Moreau Trial. It showed people pouring out of a courthouse and trickling down several wide steps. Some were weeping, some were involved in heated conversations, others simply looked stunned; it was obvious that a tragedy had just occurred.
Jasmine could imagine what that moment must’ve felt like—the bitter disappointment of the prosecution, the elation and relief of the defense. The police had the culprit in custody. They’d recovered what appeared to be irrefutable proof.
And yet it didn’t matter.
Then she saw Romain, coming out of the courthouse, and froze the playback.
Thinner and wirier than he was now, he seemed haggard, almost gaunt. Jasmine could see the heartache in the hard lines of his face. The shadow of beard proved that he hadn’t thought about his appearance in several days. Susan was walking on his right, sporting a short, sassy haircut very different from her current long layers, looking just as upset as her brother. A trim man Jasmine took to be in his late forties walked on Romain’s left, wearing a dark blue jacket.
Huff? Had to be, Jasmine decided. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a short, military style, and he had the seasoned air of a man who’d seen everything—yet he was still rocked by the D.A.’s decision to drop the case.
Pushing the play button, Jasmine leaned closer to the TV, riveted as Huff took off his jacket. She caught a brief glimpse of the gun in his hip holster before the crowd closed in. Then the picture began to bounce as the cameraman jogged behind the reporter, trying to be the first to reach Romain.
“Mr. Fornier, what do you have to say about seeing the man who allegedly killed your daughter go free?” the young woman asked.
“Nothing. He has nothing to say,” Susan replied.
Everyone ignored her as another reporter, this one a man, tried to crowd between them. “Mr. Fornier! Mr. Fornier! Do you still believe Francis Moreau murdered Adele?”
“Of course he murdered Adele,” Susan shouted.