Alligator Moon

She’d about convinced herself to clear out when she heard footsteps on the porch. She turned as John pushed through the door, then propped a hand on the facing and glared at her. “Why don’t you come in, Cassie Pierson? Make yourself at home?”

His stance and voice were intimidating, but she kept her back straight and her own voice just as level. “The door was open.”

“Cajun hospitality.” Only he didn’t sound the least bit hospitable.

She smelled the whiskey on his breath from across the room and knew she didn’t want to get into an argument with him. “Your truck was here,” she said. “I assumed you were around somewhere.”

“I’m around. What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“I’m listening.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. “Do you remember our conversation yesterday?”

“I’m half-drunk, not addled.”

“Do you still think Dennis was murdered?”

“I still know that he was. I also told you yesterday that Norman Guilliot would manipulate you and use you the same way he uses everyone else in town. That didn’t keep you from going back out there today.”

“What did you do? Pay someone to follow me around? Stalk me yourself?”

“Beau Pierre’s a small town. News gets around.”

“Then I guess there are no secrets in Beau Pierre?”

“Oh, there are plenty of secrets—just not for long. They’re like splinters buried under the skin. They fester awhile, but eventually work their way out. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to do some more drinking before this day gets any further along. If that offends you or bothers you in any way, feel free to find your way out of here the same way you found your way in.”

“You say Guilliot wants to manipulate me, and that could be true, but what about you, John? Why do you need me?”

“Me? Need you? You’ve got things way wrong, sweetheart.”

“Not the way it looks to me. You followed me out to Magnolia Plantation yesterday and informed me that your brother had been murdered.”

“And that means I need you?”

“You knew I wouldn’t just walk away from the implication of murder.”

“Of course not. No reporter walks away from a chance for a juicy story.”

“But you didn’t go to just any reporter. You came to me and claimed Dennis was murdered. You got my interest, so now give me facts. Level with me, and I’ll give you the press you’re obviously looking for.”

LEVEL WITH HER. He’d love to, only his mind was so damn twisted today he had trouble putting his thoughts in any kind of sequence that made sense. Caskets and flowers. Tombstones and burial plots. He’d been through this before not so long ago, but then it had been for his grandparents.

The actions were basically the same, but they felt so different. Dennis should have lived years longer, should have had the chance to grow old right here in Beau Pierre.

He poured himself a drink then one for Cassie. Whiskey. Straight up, so it would burn clear down to his belly. He drank his down, then poured two fingers more. Carrying both drinks, he crossed the room and handed one to Cassie.

“To leveling,” he said, clinking his glass with hers. “And to justice.”

“To justice,” she agreed. “And truth.”

“Truth—or a story? Which is it you’re after, Cassie? You have to make up your mind, you know.”

“I’d like both.”

He looked up from the whiskey and into Cassie’s eyes, the color of spring leaves, ardent, not yet jaded by the heat and merciless beatings of life. He’d been like that once, though he could barely remember it now.

Cassie sipped at the whiskey, making a face as it slid down her throat and probably hit her stomach like hot wax from a dripping candle.

“Why do you claim Dennis was murdered when the evidence points to suicide?” She tossed her head as if issuing a challenge, and wispy tendrils of curly auburn hair danced around her cheeks.

John wondered if she had any idea how sexy she looked when she did that.

“Why murder, John?” Cassie repeated.