In a line down either side of the grisly murder pictures were photographs of men. Her manager, Rob Butterfield, and his friend Jason Durang were among them. Bob Carson was up on the wall as well. She recognized a few other faces from the men who had been in her club and had harassed her. She couldn’t imagine why any of them had been singled out and would be considered suspects.

Above the pictures, a map caught her eye. It was of both the United States and Europe. There were red pins in various cities. She moved closer and studied the map. It took a moment or two for the significance to sink in. She stood there, staring, biting her lip, suddenly very much afraid.

“Come away from there,” Remy said.

She whirled around to face him, one hand going defensively to her throat. She felt the color drain out of her face. “What is this, Remy?”

“Don’ be lookin’ at that, Blue,” he cautioned. “Come into my office. You shouldn’t see that. There’s no reason.” He took her hand and tugged.

“No, I need to know. What is this?”

He sighed, his fingers stroking the back of her hand in a caress. “It’s a murder board. It helps me keep all the facts straight. Putting everything up, I can work the pieces like a puzzle until eventually it all comes together.”

“You have Rob Butterfield up there. You even have Bob.”

“I’m not calling them suspects, but they are persons of interest. All of them were here four years ago when the first series of murders happened here in New Orleans. All of these men were. I have to rule people out and so far, I haven’t quite gotten there with them, but I’m certain I will. Among others, I’m talkin’ with them now. Of course not together. I like to keep my persons of interest separated so they can’t come up with the same story.”

“Why would they even be suspects?” She wasn’t buying his “persons of interest” story for a moment.

“They were in the wrong place at the wrong time with no real alibi.” He gave a careful, casual shrug. “Come away from here now.”

Bijou resisted the tug on her hand. “Why are all those cities flagged with red pins?”

Remy went very still, her actions suddenly really catching his attention. “Do you really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” she replied. Her heart pounded hard. Her mouth went dry. She felt the rise of her leopard coming close to the surface as if offering to take her place.

“These are his kills over the last four years. The first that we found with the same pattern was in New York City.”

Bijou closed her eyes briefly. “And the days, months and year written above each pin are when he killed?”

Remy nodded grimly. “Four kills in each city. Even in Europe, but we know of only three sites there.”

She had to tell him. She felt sick to her stomach. “I need to sit down, Remy. Maybe a glass of water?”

Remy regarded her carefully, his piercing eyes sharp with intelligence. She knew she’d gone pale and that her skin had suddenly become clammy. There was no way to hide it from him since he was holding her hand. His thumb slid innocently over her pulse. He was well aware something was radically wrong. She wasn’t a wilting flower. Her distress had nothing to do with the detailed pictures of the two men she knew who had been brutally murdered.

He didn’t question her further, simply led her into his office, put her into a chair and went to get her a glass of water. She leaned her head into her hand. Nothing made sense anymore.

Remy returned and carefully closed the door. “Drink this, chere, and then tell me what’s wrong.”

Bijou took a long, cool sip, hoping it would help. Her mind raced with possibilities. “Remy, those cities on your murder map, I played shows in every single one of them. Includin’ the places in Europe.”

He went very still, his hip on the desk, his eyes locked on hers. She couldn’t have looked away if she wanted to.

“The same days, the same months. Every time I was in a city playin’ a concert, the killer was there too. That can’t be a coincidence.”

She twisted her fingers together to keep her hands from trembling. “And the first set of murders, I was here in New Orleans for Bodrie’s funeral.” She looked up at him. “What do you think that means?”

“It means your manager, his mysterious friend and your stalker just moved to the head of the list.” Remy toed a chair around and straddled it, sitting close, facing her so he could watch her every expression. “Were you at any time aware of the murders before Pete was killed?”

“After I left town, which I did fast after Bodrie’s funeral, I read about a serial killer in the Garden District. It was in the news on the television as well. But I didn’t know about any of the other killings. When I’m on tour, it’s exhaustin’. I spend most of my time goin’ from city to city, so when I have the chance, I spend my time relaxin’.”

Bijou looked down at her hands, her fingers twisted together. She hated confessing to him, making herself look like a loser. Those years had taken their toll on her. She didn’t believe in herself, or people anymore. She’d lost who she was. “I don’ trust easily, Remy. I saw the people who surrounded Bodrie. They weren’t his friends. They were usin’ him.”

Remy leaned toward her, reaching out to cover her hands with one of his. “Chere, they weren’t real. You know the difference.”