“You hated your daughter because she was everythin’ you aren’t. She’s beautiful and intelligent. She’s worth millions of dollars and she brought fame to a name you despise. You hated your husband because you couldn’t hold him,” Saria continued. “Everyone knew it. I heard whispers when I was a child. He wasn’t faithful to you, was he? You couldn’t hold a man like that. You couldn’t hold either of them, could you? Buford or Bartheleme.”

Drake waited for the perfect shot. Another inch, baby. I need her to turn another inch just to be certain. He could make the shot if there was no other choice, but she still might be able to slice through Charisse’s throat and she was vicious enough to take her daughter with her just for spite.

Iris bared her teeth and a slow hiss emerged. “I was the one who had affairs, not that idiot of a husband. He didn’t think I was clever. Only Charisse. Always his precious Charisse. If Charisse is so beautiful and intelligent, how come every one of her boyfriends slept with me? How come they all did anything I asked of them? Charisse is so damned stupid she didn’t even know what was happenin’ under her nose.”

“The opium? You and Buford cooked that up between you.”

Drake was so proud of Saria’s steady voice. She spoke as if she’d known the truth for years, as if she wasn’t guessing at all. She took another step toward the right and her hand slid down to the knife at her belt.

His heart jumped, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just waited for that one moment that was certain to come. Not too close, he silently advised, wishing he could leap in front of Saria, but he had to trust her—trust her leopard to protect her. Iris was insane and her leopard was just as mad. There was no telling what she would do now that she was cornered.

“Stupid girl. Buford and I made so much money right under her uptight goody-goody nose.” Iris’s gaze shifted just for a moment to the moldy chests stacked to the back of the room. Vines climbed around them, but each one had a brand new lock. Her treasures. “We fucked in Bartheleme’s bed all the time and even in her bed. She never knew, not even with her precious nose—the nose her father wanted to insure.” There was such a mixture of loathing and contempt in her voice, Charisse began to weep.

“Maybe you did,” Saria conceded, “but you needed the nonscent Charisse developed, didn’t you? Buford used you for his own gain. While he was fuckin’ you, he was doin’ the same to a hundred other women.”

“Whores. They were whores throwin’ themselves at him. I killed them and left their bodies to rot with the gators.”

“Please. Please.” Armande wept. “She needs help.”

Drake would bet his last dollar that Buford had given Iris gifts and she kept them here, in her lair. The money from the opium was kept in the cases until she could filter it through businesses in town or more likely—to implicate Charisse—the perfume store.

“Mama, please,” Armande pushed to his feet and held out his hand to his mother. “You don’t know what you’re doin’ . You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Iris screamed at her son, her face darkening to rage. She shook Charisse, her grip powerful, the thin veneer of civilization completely gone. “Why did you come with him, Armande? You ruined everythin’ . I could have fixed this mess, just like I’ve been takin’ care of the messes the two of you have gotten into. Those disgustin’ girls, none of them suitable. What were you thinkin’, Armande. You would have disgraced the Lafont name, matin’ with one. Your child needed to be a shifter.”

Saria let out a tinkling laugh’re still quotin’ Buford Tregre. He raped dozens of women. He laughed at you. Threw you away. And yet you choose to revere him. You’re twisted, Iris. You’re the disgrace to the Lafont name, not your children.” She poured amusement into her voice, a taunting, deliberate goad designed to needle Iris. “Trottin’ after him was so pathetic, wasn’t it? Killin’ all the women he made love to? You couldn’t stand the thought of him wantin’ those others. You just weren’t good enough, were you?”

Easy baby, Drake tried to caution her. Iris was working herself up to a killing spree.

“He wanted me. He couldn’t leave me alone. They were nothin’ to him, just like the women Armande used.”

“He wanted you so much he wouldn’t be seen in public with you,” Saria persisted. “You snuck around and he used you in the swamp, in the dirt and muck, hidin’ you from the world because he was so ashamed.”

Oh, God, she was pushing the woman too hard. He could see the smoldering fury burning behind those yellow eyes. All traces of green were gone and the gaze was fixed on Saria. Iris had forgotten Charisse, and her daughter was watching Saria for a sign. Charisse understood the gravity of her position, unlike Armande, who Remy continued to restrain, even as he kept pressure on Mahieu’s wound.

Drake’s stomach dropped. Mahieu. Saria could smell his blood. From where she was standing she could see his wound—knew just how desperate the situation for him was—and she was doing more than setting Iris up for his shot. She was maneuvering her into the corner. She intended to end this as quickly as possible—and in any way she could—even if it meant attacking the woman herself.

“When the world finds out about Iris Lafont crawlin’ after Buford Tregre, killin’ his women, killin’ her son’s women and so desperate she had to stoop to seducin’ boys her daughter dated and then killin’ them, everyone will laugh every time the name Lafont is mentioned.”