The Devil's Footprints. Amanda Stevens
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couldn’t wait until morning?”
“I didn’t know I’d wake you up,” he said defensively. “You never sleep unless…” His voice trailed off with the slightest edge of accusation. “What are you taking these days?”
“That’s none of your business. You gave up the privilege of poking around in my private life when you moved out.”
Hang up, a little voice urged her. Just press the button and make him go away.
His voice was so familiar, the regret it stirred was still so deep that Sarah’s free hand reached out for the pill bottle on her nightstand. Not finding it in the dark, her fingers scrambled across the wood surface.
“It may not be any of my business, but I still care about you, Sarah. I’ve been hearing things lately that worry me.”
“What kind of things?”
“You’ve been hanging out in some pretty rough places.”
“What, are you spying on me now?” The crab-like hand searched through the nightstand drawer and closed, like a claw, around a plastic medicine bottle. She cradled the phone against her shoulder as she twisted off the cap, then dry-swallowed half a Xanax. The bottle was alarmingly empty.
“I’m concerned about you. I know how you get when you drink. Especially if you’re still popping pills.”
“Oh, and how do I get, Sean? Why don’t you tell me?”
Another pause, one that seemed filled with his own regret. “You get reckless.”
“You used to like that about me.”
“There’s a difference between being reckless and self-destructive. Took me a while to figure that out, but I see it pretty clearly now.”
“Is that why you left?”
“You know why I left.”
No, she really didn’t, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to ask any more than it would let her chase him down the morning he walked out.
Looking back, Sarah realized that he had been trying to tell her for weeks that it was over, but she hadn’t wanted to hear it, so she refused to listen. She’d been out running errands that morning and had noticed something different about the house the moment she walked through the door. But she hadn’t stopped to consider what it might be. Instead, she’d gone into the kitchen for coffee and that was when she found his note propped against the sugar bowl.
You’re going to hate me for this, but I did what I had to do. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but I don’t think there’s much left to say at this point.
Sarah had folded the note and slipped it into her pocket as she walked calmly into the bedroom, then opened the door of the closet as if trying not to set off a bomb.
Sean’s side was always a mess, but not that morning. His clothes were all gone. Suits, pants, shirts, everything. Nothing left, but a couple of hangers dangling from the rod and a crumpled shirt on the floor.
He’d cleaned out the bathroom, too, and as Sarah walked through the house, she saw what her subconscious had noted earlier. Missing CDs and books. His laptop. Favorite pictures.
Everything of his—gone.
A big chunk of her life—gone.
And now here he was, nearly a year later, calling her in the middle of the night.
“How long can you just sit there and not say anything?” he asked angrily.
“You’re the one who called me. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Sarah—”
“Just get to the point, Sean. I’d like to go back to sleep sometime tonight.” Although she knew that wouldn’t happen. She was wide-awake now.
“All right,” he said in a resolved tone. “I’m calling because I need your help.”
Sarah was instantly suspicious. “I’m not in a generous mood these days.”
“It’s not personal. I need your help with a case. We’ve got a body covered in ink, but no ID. I was hoping you’d come have a look, see if you recognize the artist.”
Sarah clutched the phone, trying to ignore the surge of adrenaline that already had her heart thudding. She reminded herself that Sean Kelton never did anything without a motive. “Why me?”
“Because I couldn’t get your partner on the phone,” he admitted. “And because you know every tattoo artist in the city. Come on, you always loved working my cases with me. You were good at it, too.”
She smiled, in spite of herself.
“So will you do it? I really could use your help.”
“Would I have to come to the morgue?”
“We could wait and do it there, but I’d rather you come now. The body hasn’t been moved yet, and I’d like to get your take on something at the crime scene.”
“I’m a civilian, Sean. They’re not going to let me waltz through a police barricade without some kind of credentials.”
He hesitated. “Yeah, that could be a problem, but I’ll take care of it. I’m sending a cruiser to pick you up. It’s getting nasty out here. I haven’t seen an ice storm like this since I was a kid.”
In spite of her protests, Sarah was already scrambling out of bed, reaching for a pair of clean jeans from the stack on her dresser. An urgency she couldn’t explain drove her, but her movements were still sluggish and it seemed to take forever to locate a shirt.
“How long until my ride gets here?”
“A couple of minutes.”
A couple of minutes.
Which meant he’d dispatched the car before he called…or else the crime scene was that close to her house.
“Sarah DeLaune?”
The uniformed officer standing on her porch was young, probably around twenty-five, with a broad, pleasant face and twinkling blue eyes. He touched the brim of his cap. “Lieutenant Kelton sent me to pick you up, ma’am.”
“I’m almost ready—” She glanced at his name tag. “Officer Parks. Just give me a second to grab a coat and find my keys. You can come in out of the cold if you want.”
“Thanks just the same. I’ll go wait in the car, keep the heater running.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sarah left the front door open as she shrugged into the wool jacket and gloves she’d dug out of the back of her closet when the cold front hit. A frigid wind blew through the room, lifting the edges of the newspaper on the coffee table.
The paper had been there for a couple of days now, turned to an article about a missing Shreveport woman named Holly Jessup. Sarah didn’t know her, but for some reason, she couldn’t get the name out of her head.
Holly…Jessup.
Grabbing her keys from the hall table, Sarah stepped out on the porch. The icy wind cut through her blue jeans as she struggled with the lock. Then she turned and hesitated at the edge of the porch before negotiating the frozen steps.
Snow flurries whirled over the street and drifted like feathers down to the lawn. Her tiny front yard was white and glistening, a winter wonderland that would vanish as soon as the sun came up.
Sarah hated the cold, but even she could appreciate the rarity of a snowfall in New Orleans. It happened maybe once every thirty years. She wanted to take a moment to enjoy the pristine tranquility of the night, but instead she found herself scouring the icy darkness, searching for the evil that had been awakened by her nightmare.
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