“I know you think Armande . . .” Charisse began.

Remy burst through the cabin door, nearly knocking Saria over. He caught her to steady her, his face grim. “Mahieu isn’t answerin’ his cell. He didn’t come home last night. Where is he, Charisse?” he demanded.

“She doesn’t know,” Drake said. “It isn’t her. Nor did she know about the opium. Was Armande home last night, Charisse?”

“Stop askin’ me about my brother. I’m tellin’ you, he has nothin’ to do with opium. Talk to our workers. Neither of us have much to do with the outdoor gardens.”

“But you both go to the greenhouse,” Drake persisted.

“Armande is proud of my work. When I ask him, he always comes to see the new plants.”

Remy stepped forward and thrust several photographs into her hand. “What about these? Do you think your brother had anything to do with this?”

Charisse looked down at the first picture in her hand. Her entire body went rigid. Still. She made one inarticulate sound, every vestige of color draining from her face. Twice she tried to speak before she managed to get the words out. “I know this man. Is he dead? Mon Dieu. He looks dead. I went out to dinner with him a few months ago. Armande introduced us. They were friends from college. He stood me up on our second date.”

She swallowed hard and looked down at the second picture. A small scream escaped her and she threw the photographs back at Remy. “Why are you doin’ this to me? I went out with him four months ago. We had three dates. He was a nice man. Who did this?”

Saria instantly went to her friend and sank down beside her to take her into her arms, rocking her back and forth. “I’m so sorry, Charisse. I’m so very sorry.”

“You think someone is goin’ to do this to Mahieu? Because of me? Is this about me?” Charisse raised her head from Saria’s shoulder and looked Drake directly in the eye. “You don’t believe my brother did this because of me, do you?” There was horror in her eyes, in her very tone. She looked on the verge of fainting.

“I don’t know, Charisse, but someone is killing these men and if you are the connection,” Drake said, “and you’re also the connection to the opium . . .”

Charisse covered her face with both hands. “This can’t be happenin’.”

“I want you to look at some other photos as well,” Remy said, his voice much more gentle. “There’s been a series of murders around New Orleans. All female. Their bodies were dumped in the bayous and swamps and around the river. I just want you to tell me if you know any of these women.”

“I don’t want to look,” Charisse protested. “I can’t. You’re tearin’ apart my life and I won’t have you accusin’ my brother of runnin’ drugs or worse, killin’ people.” She kept her hands clamped over her face and began to weep, a low heartbreaking sound.

Both Remy and Drake opened their mouths but abruptly closed them when Saria imperiously held uphand to silence them. She stroked Charisse’s hair with gentle fingers, making a soft, soothing sound. Drake couldn’t help think how she would look calming a distraught child.

“I need you to think of Mahieu, cher. If you know Armande didn’t do any of this, you have nothin’ to worry about, but Mahieu could be in terrible danger. You don’t know, Charisse, perhaps there’s a stalker out there, someone who is tryin’ to make it look as if Armande or you is the guilty party. Please look. It may help us find my brother.”

Charisse very slowly lifted her face from her hands and looked up at Saria. The two women exchanged a long look before Charisse finally nodded very reluctantly. Saria smiled with encouragement at her and held out her hand for the photographs. Remy gave them to her.

The two women looked at the first picture of a woman’s face, obviously dead, her features delicate, hair spilling around her like spider webs. Charisse sniffed and shook her head. Saria showed her the next photograph. Charisse gave a small cry and flung herself back against the sofa, trying to retreat from the dead woman.

“That’s Lucy. Lucy O’Donnell. She was datin’ Armande. He told me she left town abruptly, that her mother was ill.” She looked up at Saria, a lost little girl. “I want to go home. I feel sick.”

Saria handed the photographs back to her brother. “Drake will get you a glass of water and we’ll go in a minute, Charisse. You didn’t kill those men, and it’s just as probable Armande didn’t kill those women.”

“He wouldn’t,” Charisse said. “He isn’t like that.”

“He attacked Saria in the grove just outside of town,” Drake said, trying not to snarl. He glared at Saria. He didn’t want her giving Charisse false hope.

“What?” Charisse’s eyes widened. She took the glass of water and drank most of it before turning her gaze back to her friend. “He wouldn’t.”

Remy and Drake exchanged a long look. Charisse was lying. She knew all about Armande attacking Saria in the grove.

Drake deliberately loomed over her, knowing he was intimidating with his leopard riding him so hard, furious that another man had dared to put his mark on his female, and worse, had hurt her in the process. Saria sent him a look that clearly told him to back off—which he ignored.

“Before you get yourself into more trouble, Charisse,” Drake cautioned, “you might remember I’ll know if you’re lying to me. I’m not all that happy with any member of your family.”