Chapter 37: The Gala Gamble
The bayou humidity clung to Jennifer’s skin like a second dress as they stepped from the Uber onto the manicured gravel path. The museum was a restored antebellum mansion, its white columns glowing under carefully aimed spotlights. Music and the low bubble of conversation spilled from its open doors. Inside, the grand ballroom was a spectacle of curated wealth. A chandelier, a monstrous cascade of crystal, refracted light across the faces of donors holding flutes of champagne. The air smelled of perfume, expensive cigars, and the faint, ever-present damp of the Louisiana night.
Marcus adjusted his cuffs, his suit a precise, dark grey that somehow made him look more like tactical gear than evening wear. He scanned the room with the detached efficiency of a predator assessing a watering hole. “There,” he murmured, his chin dipping slightly toward a cluster of men near a massive oil painting of a storm-tossed river.
Elias Voss stood at the center, holding court. He was in his late fifties, with a head of thick, silver hair and a tan that spoke of golf courses, not crime scenes. He laughed at something a companion said, the sound rich and practiced, his hand resting lightly on the arm of a woman in a sequined gown.
“You work the charm,” Marcus said, his voice low near her ear. “I’ll circle, cover the exits. Give me two minutes to get position.”
Jennifer didn’t answer. She just smoothed the emerald silk over her hips, let a casual, curious smile touch her lips, and began to move through the crowd. She picked up a stray champagne flute from a passing waiter’s tray, a prop in her hand. The dress did its work; a few admiring glances slid her way, but she was just another beautiful accessory in a room full of them.
She arrived at the fringe of Voss’s group just as a wave of laughter subsided. She waited for a beat, then made eye contact with him, letting her smile deepen with a hint of professional interest. “Mr. Voss? I’m sorry to interrupt. Lena Sharpe. I was hoping to bend your ear for just a moment about the conservation initiative. Your name came up as someone with… a discerning eye for valuable projects.”
The lie flowed easily. Voss’s gaze swept over her, appreciative but cautious. He excused himself from his companions with a practiced nod. “Miss Sharpe.A pleasure. The conservation fund is a passion of mine. What specifically piqued your interest?”
He guided her slightly away from the group, toward a set of French doors that led to a shadowed veranda. Perfect. Jennifer kept her tone light, discussing meaningless details about wetland preservation trusts, all while steering him toward the doors. “It’s the long-term vision I admire,” she said, her hand on the brass handle. “Seeing the potential in something others might overlook. It’s quieter out here, we could talk details.”
He followed, a gentleman indulging a potential donor. The night air on the veranda was a relief, thick with the scent of jasmine and distant water. The sounds of the gala muted to a dull roar.
They were alone. Jennifer leaned against the iron railing, looking out at the dark garden. “Actually, Mr. Voss, I’m more interested in a different kind of preservation. Of a legacy. A client of yours from some time ago. Silas Vane.”
All the affable ease drained from his face. It was instant, like flipping a switch. His eyes hardened, his posture stiffening. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And if you’re a reporter—”
“I’m not a reporter.” She kept her voice calm, conversational. “Vane’s old company, Balloon Capital, just loaned money to a shell that owned a toy store that burned down. That store is connected to two bodies. And your firm still handles the taxes for a parcel in West Feliciana purchased by a trust linked to that same shell. That’s a lot of coincidence for a discerning man like you.”
Voss took a step back, toward the doors. “This is highly inappropriate. I’ll have you removed.”
“I wouldn’t.” Marcus’s voice came from the deeper shadows to their left. He stepped into the sliver of light from the ballroom, his broad frame blocking the path back inside. He didn’t flash his badge; his presence was warrant enough. “We can do this here, with all your friends watching, or we can take a ride downtown and do it under fluorescents. Your choice, counselor. But we’re having this conversation.”
Voss looked from Marcus to Jennifer, understanding dawning. The charming potential donor and the silent, looming threat. A team. His shoulders slumped, the fight leaving him in a weary exhale. “You don’t know what you’re digging into.”
“Then enlighten us,” Jennifer said.
He stared at his polished shoes for a long moment. The music from inside swelled, a brassy jazz number that felt grotesquely cheerful. “He’s back,” Voss finally whispered, as if saying it louder might summon the man. “Not publicly. He’s a ghost. But it’s his operation. The… the procurement network.”
“Procurement of what?” Marcus’s voice was a blade.
“Anything of value. Art, antiquities, high-end collectibles. The toy store…” Voss rubbed his temple. “It was a test. A small-scale logistics hub. Using childhood collectibles—limited edition action figures, vintage dolls—to move payments. Untraceable, high-value items that could be sold anywhere in the world. The fire was a reset. Something went wrong.”
“The bodies,” Jennifer pressed.
“Liabilities,” Voss said, his voice hollow. “The man in your canal was a courier who got greedy. The man in the storage unit, Gareth, he was the manager. He made a mistake. Vane doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
“And the card?” Marcus asked.
Voss looked up, genuine fear in his eyes for the first time. “The King of Diamonds? That’s his mark. It means a debt has been paid. Permanently. It’s for everyone in the network to see. A lesson.”
Jennifer exchanged a look with Marcus. This was confession enough for now. “You’re coming with us, Mr. Voss. We have a lot more to discuss about property records, trust funds, and how a dead man pays his taxes.”
The interrogation room at the Fourth Precinct was a dull green cube. They let Voss stew for an hour before going in. He gave them everything he dared—names of shell companies, the address of the West Feliciana parcel (a defunct hunting lodge, he thought), the modus operandi of the collectibles laundering. He claimed he never met Vane directly, only ever dealt with intermediaries, and that his firm’s continued involvement was a mix of fear, habit, and hefty, off-the-books retainers.
It was after midnight when they cut him loose, with strict instructions not to leave town. He left looking like a man who’d just signed his own death warrant.
The precinct was quiet, the hallway lights buzzing. Jennifer stood by her borrowed desk, feeling the crash from the adrenaline. Her feet ached in the ridiculous heels.
Marcus emerged from the captain’s office, having delivered the update. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes etched deeper in the harsh light. He walked over to her desk, leaning his hips against it.
“You were good in there,” he said. “The Lena Sharpe bit. Smooth.”
“It was the dress,” she deflected, rubbing her neck.
“It certainly helped.” He was quiet for a moment, watching her. “You look dead on your feet. And you probably haven’t had a meal that didn’t come in a foam box since you got to this swamp.”
“Your point, Cole?”
“My point is, I make a halfway decent gumbo. And my place has a balcony that doesn’t overlook a parking lot. Come over tomorrow night. Not a date,” he added, holding up a hand before she could formulate the protest he saw coming. “A tactical retreat. Two detectives debriefing over something that isn’t precinct coffee. We can talk about next steps on Vane. No expectations.”
She studied his face. The offer seemed genuine, stripped of the loaded tension from her apartment. It was practical. And she was so tired of being alone with the case in a sterile hotel room.
“Gumbo, huh?”
“From my grandmother’s recipe. And before you ask, yes, it’s the best thing you’ll ever taste.”
A faint, reluctant smile touched her lips. “That’s a bold claim.”
“It’s a fact.” He pushed off the desk. “I’ll text you the address. Seven o’clock. Don’t bring wine. I have a beer that’ll pair better.”
He walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Jennifer sat down slowly, the stiff chair groaning. She slipped off the emerald pumps and wiggled her toes on the cool linoleum. It was just dinner. A debrief. A needed break in a familiar, if complicated, space.
She pulled out her phone and stared at it. No messages. John was a ghost in her life now, a pleasant memory placed carefully on a shelf. This thing with Marcus was a live wire, dangerous and undeniable, a circuit that had never fully been disconnected.
She texted back a single word: Okay.
Then she dropped the phone into her clutch, the sound loud in the silent room. Outside, the first faint light of dawn was beginning to bleed into the darkness over the river, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise.
Outside, the first faint light of dawn was beginning to bleed into the darkness over the river, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise. Jennifer drove back to her rental, the streets nearly empty. She peeled the emerald dress off, letting it pool on the bathroom floor like shed skin, and stood under a shower so hot it left her skin pink and tingling.
She slept a few dreamless hours, the blackout curtains making time irrelevant. Her phone buzzed at 4:23 p.m. with an address in the Garden District, followed by a second text from Marcus: Door’s open. Come around back.
The house was a narrow Creole cottage, its pale yellow plaster weathered but neat, nestled behind a curtain of lush ferns and bougainvillea. The wooden gate swung inward at her touch. A brick path led to a secluded courtyard where a small table was set for two, and Marcus stood at a grill, the scent of onions, garlic, and smoked paprika weaving through the heavy air.
“You found it,” he said, without turning. He wore a plain grey t-shirt and jeans, an apron tied around his waist. It was the most domestic she’d ever seen him.
“The gumbo better be legendary,” she said, setting down a six-pack of local IPA on the table. “I defied your specific beverage instructions.”
“I’ll allow it.” He lifted the lid on a heavy cast-iron pot, and a cloud of savory steam billowed out. “It needs ten more minutes. Beer’s in the fridge. Grab two.”
The interior was surprisingly bright, all white walls and dark wood floors, with shelves lined more with books than police memorabilia. A single framed photo on a bookshelf showed a much younger Marcus, uniformed, standing beside a smiling woman with kind eyes. Jennifer looked away, feeling like an intruder.
She found the fridge, grabbed the bottles, and returned to the courtyard. The sky was softening into evening. He took a beer, clinked the neck of his against hers, and took a long pull.
“So,” she said, leaning against the table. “Not a date.”
“Debriefing with protein,” he affirmed, stirring the pot. “Voss’s formal statement came in. He verified the hunting lodge address. Evangeline’s running satellite imagery, seeing if there’s any recent activity.”
“He was scared.”
“He should be.” Marcus sprinkled filé powder into the pot. “The King of Diamonds was left for a network audience, but it was also a direct message to anyone thinking of talking. Voss talked. He knows what that might cost.”
The gravity of it settled between them, a cold stone amidst the warm, fragrant air. He served the gumbo into deep bowls, the dark roux thick with shrimp, chicken, and andouille sausage. They sat. The first taste was complex, deep, and utterly transcendent.
“Okay,” Jennifer conceded after a few silent, appreciative spoonfuls. “Legendary.”
A faint smile touched his eyes. They ate for a while, the only sounds the cicadas and the soft clink of spoons. It was comfortable, a familiar silence she hadn’t realized she’d missed.
“How’s Ruiz handling it?” he finally asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Worried. Supportive. Paternal.” She swirled her spoon. “He said John will be fine. It was the right call.”
“He’s right on both counts.” Marcus studied her. “Doesn’t make it feel any better, though.”
She shrugged, a gesture that felt fragile. “It’s the job. We make messes. We contain them. Sometimes the mess is personal.” She looked around the courtyard, changing the subject. “This place doesn’t scream ‘veteran detective.’ Where’s the neon liquor sign? The wall of case files?”
“Left that in my twenties. This… this is what I fought to come home to.” His gaze was steady on her. “Quiet.”
She held that look, the air tightening again. “You’re about to retire. Why jump back into this Vane quagmire? You could hand it off.”
“And let someone else clean up my ghost?” He shook his head, definitive. “No. I put him away once. The system failed. This time, the finish is personal.”
His phone vibrated on the table. He glanced at it, then turned the screen toward her. It was a text from Evangeline. The satellite photos showed three vehicles, recent models, parked at the hunting lodge over the past week. Heat signatures indicated multiple occupants inside.
“It’s active,” Jennifer said, her professional focus snapping back into place, a welcome shield.
“Very.” He typed a quick acknowledgment. “We’ll need to scout it. Ground reconnaissance. No uniforms, no sirens. Just eyes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” He finished his beer. “It’s remote. We’ll use the bayou approach, come in by water. Evangeline’s arranging a boat.”
The remaining gumbo tasted like ash. Jennifer pushed her bowl away, the quiet courtyard now feeling like a briefing room. “Tomorrow’s fast.”
“Vane knows we’re sniffing,” Marcus said, clearing the table with efficient motions. “The card on the body was a statement, but it also telegraphs his hand. He’s arrogant. He won’t expect us to move this quickly on a rural lead.”
“Or he’s expecting exactly that, and it’s a trap.”
He paused, a bowl in each hand. “That’s why we scout. No entry. Just eyes.” He carried the dishes inside. “You got dark clothes? Stuff that doesn’t rustle.”
“I’m a detective, Marcus. I own exactly one emerald dress. The rest is tactical chic.” She followed him into the small kitchen.
He grinned, handing her a sponge. “Dry.” The domesticity was jarring, but easy. They cleaned up in a few minutes of silent, shared labor.
The case pressed in around the edges of the calm. They stood in his quiet kitchen, the faucet dripping once, twice, into the clean sink.
The mundanity of the moment felt stolen, and fragile. The last of the dishwater swirled down the drain, taking the pretense of ordinary life with it. Jennifer dried her hands on the towel, the coarse cotton snagging on a callus.
“Thirsty again,” she said, her voice cutting the quiet. She turned back to the refrigerator, its white light flooding the dim kitchen for a second.
She bent at the waist to retrieve two more bottles from the bottom shelf. The posture stretched the fabric of her jeans taut. Marcus, leaning against the counter, watched the line of her body with a frank, weary appreciation that had nothing to do with the case. She was single now. The thought arrived unvarnished. A little bayou summer romance on the side would do both of them some good, a temporary antidote to the ghosts they were chasing.
She straightened, turned, and caught him in the act. His eyes snapped up to hers, but he didn’t flinch or look away. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. She held out a bottle. “See something you like, Cole?”
He took the beer, his fingers brushing hers. He held her gaze, the air in the small kitchen growing thick and still. “I very much do,” he said, his voice a low rasp. The admission hung there, simple and undeniable.
Jennifer popped the cap off her own bottle, the sound sharp in the silence. She took a long drink, watching him over the glass. “Complicating the mission, aren’t we?”
“The mission’s already complicated.” He mirrored her, taking a swallow. “This is just two people in a room.
“Acknowledging a fact.” He took another slow drink, his eyes never leaving hers. “That dress you wore to the gala. The emerald one. It reminded me of some good memories we had."
The mention was a deliberate, tender grenade. She looked down, a small smile playing on her lips as she took a swig of beer to buy a second. “I bet it did,” she quipped, her voice softer now.
Before he could reply, a sharp buzz fractured the moment. His phone, screen-up on the counter, vibrated against the marble. The name EVANGELINE glowed. He sighed, a sound of profound resignation, and picked it up.
He scanned the message, his expression shifting from warmth to focused neutrality. “It’s Evangeline. Reminder to come in tomorrow afternoon to explore the bayou.” He set the phone down with a definitive tap. “So much for a quiet night.”
“It was a nice fantasy for five minutes,” Jennifer said, turning to place her empty bottle in the recycling bin by the pantry door.
He moved at the same time, stepping toward the table to clear the last of the caps. Their paths collided in the narrow galley space between the counter and the island.
Jennifer’s hip caught the edge of the drawer handle. She stumbled sideways with a short gasp, her balance lost. Instinctively, her hands flew out, grabbing for anything solid. They found the front of Marcus’s t-shirt.
He tried to brace, but her momentum was too sudden. His heel caught on the edge of the rug. They went down in a tangled, graceless heap, the world tilting.
The impact was a hollow thud against the hardwood floor. The air left her lungs in a soft oof. He’d managed to twist slightly, taking most of the fall on his side and shoulder, but his solid weight still came down half on top of her, pinning her left leg and torso.
For a second, there was only stunned silence, the shock of the fall vibrating through them. Then the sensory details rushed in: the hard press of the floorboards against her back, the warm, solid plane of his chest against her side, the clean scent of his soap and the faint, underlying smell of the gumbo spices. Her hands were still fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt.
His face was inches from hers, his breath warm on her cheek. She could see every grey fleck in his stubble, the dark dilation of his pupils. His body was rigid, a contained tension humming through every muscle where they touched.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough, low. He wasn’t moving.
“Wind’s knocked out,” she managed, her own voice a breathless scrape. “Floor’s harder than it looks.”
A slow, real smile broke through his concern. “You’re telling me.” He shifted his weight, his forearm braced beside her head, but he didn’t roll away.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counter-rhythm to the slow, deliberate pulse she could feel where his body met hers.
The shock of the fall faded, replaced by a warmer, more dangerous current. It pooled in the silence between their ragged breaths, in the unyielding press of his hip against hers. His gaze dropped to her mouth, held there, and the kitchen’s stillness became a held breath.
“This is where,” she started, her voice a husky attempt to break the spell, to deflect with the old, familiar argument, “I’m supposed to make a joke. You know, about the twenty-six-year age gap and how wildly inappropriate this whole... floor situation is.” She gave a weak, breathless laugh. “How wrong it is to even—”
He stopped the words by covering her mouth with his.
The kiss wasn’t gentle or questioning. It was a firm, definitive press, hot and tasting of beer and spice. Her eyes widened, then fluttered shut. She raised an amused eyebrow against his skin, a silent signal of confused surrender as his lips began to move against hers with a slow, knowing certainty.
One of her hands, still tangled in his shirt, pulled him closer. The other found the back of his neck, her fingers sliding into the coarse salt-and-pepper hair there. He deepened the kiss, and a low, involuntary sound vibrated in her throat.
When they broke for air, she was stammering. “Marcus… the case. This is a catastrophic… distraction.” Her protest was hollow, swallowed as his mouth trailed from her lips to the hinge of her jaw.
“It’s just fun, Jenny,” he murmured against her skin, his breath scalding as he kissed down the column of her throat. His hands were already moving, one skimming the curve of her waist, the other sliding beneath the hem of her shirt to find the warm skin of her stomach. “A little summer romance. Never hurt anybody.”
Before she could form another weak objection, his arms hooked under her knees and shoulders. In one fluid, shocking motion, he stood, lifting her with him. She gasped, clinging to his neck as he carried her from the kitchen, down a short hallway, and into the dim bedroom.
He didn’t lay her down. He threw her. She landed in a soft bounce on the duvet, the air leaving her lungs in a laugh that was half shock. He was on her before she could move, peeling away fabric, his hands and mouth everywhere. Her own fingers fought with the buckle of his belt.
This is objectively not smart, the last coherent thread of her internal monologue reported, dissolving as he bit gently at the swell of her breast. You just put things on hold with John. You’re hunting a ghost. This is professional insanity. His tongue traced a path down her ribs. But god, she thought, arching into him, at least it’s interesting.
Then there was no more thinking, just feeling. The scrape of his beard, the solid weight of him, the way his experienced hands knew exactly where to go, how to pace her rising urgency until her nails dug into his back. It was frantic and hot and deeply familiar, a language their bodies had never forgotten. The only sounds were skin on skin, the creak of the bed, and their mingled, ragged breaths cresting into shared, swallowed cries.
Dawn filtered through the blinds, painting tiger stripes across the tangled sheets. Jennifer woke to the slow, warm drag of his lips tracing the line of her spine. A breathy moan escaped her, her body arcing into the sensation before her mind fully engaged.
“Morning,” he rasped, his voice sleep-roughened. He continued his path downward, planting open-mouthed kisses at the base of her spine, his hands smoothing over the curves of her hips.
“We should’ve done this again a lot sooner,” he muttered into her skin, the words a vibration she felt in her bones. He nuzzled the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, his beard a pleasant scratch.
She sighed, a long, happy exhalation of agreement, turning her head to grant him better access. “Yeah,” she breathed, the simplicity of the word holding volumes of wasted time and complicated history. “We really should have.”
They showered separately, a practical, unspoken decision. Dressed in the dark clothes he’d requested—hers a form-fitting black tee and tactical pants—they shared a quick, silent coffee at his kitchen island, the scene of the previous night’s collision. The air was different now, charged but settled, a circuit finally closed.
“You ready for this?” he asked, holstering his weapon.
“To sneak through a swamp looking for a ghost?” She checked her own sidearm, the action routine, centering. “After last night? I feel like I can handle anything.”
He grinned, a quick, genuine flash of teeth, and ushered her out the door.
The Fourth Precinct hummed with its usual mid-morning lethargy. Evangeline was in her office, a topographical map of West Feliciana Parish spread across her desk. She looked up as they entered, her sharp eyes missing nothing—the slight ease between them, the way they stood a fraction too close.
“Glad you two could finally join the workday,” she said, her tone dry. She pointed to a spot on the map circled in red. “The hunting lodge is here. Only land access is a single-lane gravel road, easy to watch. Water access is better. There’s a old, overgrown dock about three hundred yards south on the bayou.”
Marcus leaned over the map, his shoulder brushing Jennifer’s. “What’s the plan?”
“Boat in after full dark,” Evangeline said. “Myself and two of my guys who know these waters. We go quiet, electric trolling motor only. We observe. No engagement. We get confirmation of activity, we pull back and plan a warranted breach for tomorrow with state police.”
“Sounds simple enough,” Jennifer said.
“Nothing on this case is simple,” Evangeline countered, her gaze flicking to Marcus. “But it’s the only play. We brief Captain Ruiz in ten. He needs to know we’re stepping on the ghost’s porch.”
The briefing with Ruiz over video call was tense but supportive. His face, pixelated on the screen, was grim. “You confirm Vane is there, you withdraw. You hear me? I don’t need two of my best detectives becoming part of the bayou. This is a scouting mission, not a confrontation.”
“Understood, Captain,” they said in unison.
As they left the cramped video room and stepped back into the precinct’s main bullpen, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, Marcus’s hand found the small of Jennifer’s back. His touch was professional, guiding, until his fingers slid lower, cupping the curve of her ass through the tactical fabric in a bold, unmistakable grab.
A jolt, electric and warm, shot through her. It was entirely inappropriate, and yet, after the night they’d shared, not entirely unwelcome. She didn’t pull away, just shot him a sideways glance.
He leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a warm, quick peck right there amidst the desks and ringing phones. “For luck,” he whispered, his eyes crinkling.
She chuckled despite herself, shaking her head as she walked toward Evangeline’s office to gear up. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, falling into step beside her, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin. “But you like it.” His words were a low rumble as they left the precinct. The midday heat clung to the sidewalk like a damp blanket, only broken by the occasional gust from passing cars. Jennifer walked beside him, their shoulders brushing, the silence between them comfortable now. It was the kind of quiet that came from years of shared history, of knowing when to speak and when to let the world wait.
Marcus unlocked his car—a restored 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne pickup with polished chrome and a bench seat that still smelled faintly of old leather and gun oil. The interior was surprisingly clean, a testament to his meticulous nature. He started the engine, the V8 growling to life, and pulled smoothly into traffic.
Jennifer leaned back against the seat, watching the city blur past the window. The familiar hum of the engine, the low thrum of the radio playing an old blues track, the scent of leather and his cologne—it all wrapped around her like a well-worn coat.
Marcus glanced at her, his eyes flicking to the holster visible at her hip, then back to the road. "You ever think about fully retiring?" she asked suddenly, surprising herself.
He barked out a laugh. "You mean like you?"
She shot him a look, but there was no malice in it. "I’m serious. You’ve got enough years on the force to write your own ticket.
Why keep running toward danger instead of away from it?”
Marcus drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the rhythm syncing with the blues track. "Because danger doesn’t run from me," he said simply. "And because some ghosts don’t stay buried unless you dig them up yourself."
Jennifer turned to face him fully, studying the profile of this man she’d loved and left and loved again in cycles. His jaw was set, the salt-and-pepper stubble casting a shadow across the strong angles of his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened since she’d known him, etched by time and too many cases left unsolved.
"I get that," she said softly.
She shifted in her seat, her fingers playing with the hem of her t-shirt. "I just... don’t want to lose you again. Not like this."
Marcus reached over and took her hand, his thumb tracing circles on the back of it. It was a simple gesture, but it carried the weight of years of history between them. "You won’t lose me," he said. "Not this time. I promise."
The hunt for Silas Vane was about to begin, but this conversation had already taken them somewhere deeper. The air in the truck was thick with anticipation, both for the mission ahead and for the unspoken promises hanging between them.
Jennifer tightened her fingers around Marcus’s, grounding herself in the warmth of his touch.
"Alright," she said, letting out a slow breath. "Let’s find this ghost."
Marcus squeezed her hand before pulling away to focus on the road. The drive to Evangeline’s took them through the winding streets of the Garden District, past historic mansions wrapped in wisteria and wrought-iron gates. The late afternoon sun painted everything in golden hues, a stark contrast to the grim mission they were about to undertake.
Evangeline’s unmarked SUV was parked in front of her weathered shotgun house, its usual crew of two deputies already waiting by the water’s edge.
A sleek, flat-bottomed aluminum boat with a trolling motor sat tethered to the dock, its dark hull blending into the murky bayou water. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and blooming water hyacinths, the heat pressing down like a slow, unseen hand.
The deputies nodded at Marcus and Jennifer as they approached, their faces set in the easy vigilance of men who spent more time on water than on land. One, a broad-shouldered redhead named Dale, held up a pair of night-vision binoculars. “We’ve got movement on the lodge’s east side,” he said, his voice low. “A faint light, no bigger than a penlight.