Dallas, Texas - Ten years later.

---

The hot July wind blasted across the dirt-filled lot of the latest build going up in the Talman Estates, while a banner of colored flags tied to a For Sale sign popped and flapped like the business end of a bullwhip at the lot next door. A cement truck was on site, pouring another load of fresh concrete into driveway forms, while the mud crews moved quickly, smoothing it into place.

A black, Texas-size Lincoln, driven by a man named Roy Beatty, came wheeling into the housing addition. Roy was all full of rage and indignation as he headed for the site where they were working, and when he parked, he got out shouting.

"Where the hell is Logan Talman?"

One of the workers pointed toward a group of people standing on the far side of the new build.

Beatty stomped across what would one day be a beautiful lawn, cursing at the dust boiling up on his alligator boots and fancy suit, wishing he'd worn something cooler. He came to a stop a few yards away, jammed the Stetson down on his head to keep it from blowing away, and shouted.

"Which one of you sons-a-bitches is Logan Talman?"

The men stepped back, giving way to the tall, dark-haired woman in work clothes and a hard hat who slowly looked up from the clipboard she was holding.

"Gentlemen, if you'll give me a minute, I'll see what has this dude's drawers in a twist so he can be on his way." And then she strode toward Beatty with obvious intent.

Roy Beatty frowned. Even in blowing dirt and work clothes, she was drop-dead gorgeous. However, he hadn't come here to be side-tracked by some long-legged bitch.

"I need to speak to Logan Talman."

"I'm Logan Talman."

He blinked, then remembered why he'd come.

"I'm Roy Beatty. I own—"

Logan interrupted.

"I know who you are. You own Dallas Brickwork."

Beatty's pig-eyes glittered angrily.

"Yes, I do, and you placed an order with my company for twenty-five pallets of adobe red pavers. Then I get to work this morning and find out you cancelled the order. I want to know why?"

Logan walked into his personal space, punctuating her words every few sentences with a finger jab to his chest, which only made him madder.

"Because you have screwed up my work schedule for the last damn time. You missed your delivery date...again. This is the third order I've given you this year that's been late. I needed those pallets four days ago. I called. Somebody at your office told me there was yet another mix-up, and they were delivered to another contractor. I know how you work. You sell my pavers to someone who wants an order bad enough to buy it above asking price and make me wait. As you can see, I got tired of waiting and went another direction. I'm pouring concrete instead of pavers, and when I need pavers again, I'll be calling your competitor, Jackson's Rock and Brick Yard for product."

By now, Beatty was furious. He'd never wanted to hit someone as badly as he did this woman, but his mama had drilled the 'boys don't hit girls' manners into him too well to let fly. All he could do was toss out a pathetic excuse for a threat. His face reddened, and then the wind gusted, blowing dirt into his eyes, which made them begin to water. Now he looked like he was crying. It couldn't get much worse as he began to bluster.

"You can't...you don't...you're making a big mistake!"

Logan's retort was sharp and to the point. "The mistake was yours. You will not be getting any further orders from Talman Construction. Now get your crooked ass off my property, and don't come back."

Beatty was still trying to figure out how someone so pretty could be so damn mean, when she turned her back on him and walked away.

Hacked that she'd not only gotten the last word, but had dismissed him that casually, was embarrassing to a man like Beatty, especially since work all around them had completely stopped, and every man within earshot had been listening. There was nothing to do but leave, hoping word didn't spread about his business practices. He stomped back through the dust to his Lincoln, leaving rubber on the street as he gunned the engine and drove away.

Logan returned to the conversation with her sub-contractors without missing a beat.

"So, Hank, when did you say the quartz countertops are going in?"

And with that, the briefing continued until all of her questions had been satisfied.

The site managers went back to their respective builds while she spent the rest of the day moving from one job site to the other, keeping track of each crew and the amount of work being done, just as her husband, Andrew, had done.

She didn't leave the new housing addition until the final concrete truck had dumped its load, and Wade Garrett, her general manager, arrived to relieve her and finish out the evening with the last crew.

She mulled over the details of the day through five o'clock traffic on the Dallas Expressway, and by the time she got home, the headache she'd ignored all day was ratcheting up into the beginnings of a sleepless night.

She grabbed the mail on her way inside, tossing it on the kitchen table as the cool air began drying the sweat on her skin.

And, as she did every day when she got home, she poured herself a shot of whiskey, toasted the portrait of Andrew hanging over the fireplace in the den, and downed it like medicine, then stood for a few moments staring at his face.

It was Andrew at his best. Blue shirt the same color as his eyes, open at the neck. His rough-hewn features softened by the hint of a smile and the big gray Stetson casting shade. He'd been a big man—a good five inches over six feet—and the only man Logan had ever trusted on sight. At nineteen, she'd lied to him about her age, and married the thirty-year-old contractor six months after they met.

"Five years wasn't enough. I miss you," she said, and then headed for the shower.

A short while later, wearing shorts and one of Andrew's old t-shirts, she went barefoot back through the house to the kitchen, poured herself a big glass of sweet tea, and sat down at the table, ice clinking in the glass. She began to go through the mail, separating bills from the junk until she came to a large brown envelope. The return address gave her a start.

Blue Sky Investigations—the private detective agency she'd hired a couple of months back. Unwilling to 'go there', she set it aside, booted up her laptop, and proceeded to pay the outstanding bills and answer the day's email.

She didn't think about food until work was done, and now that she'd finished, she was suddenly starving. She took a T-bone from the fridge, seasoned it, wrapped it in aluminum foil, then carried it outside and fired up the grill. It would take a while for it to get hot enough, so she turned an eye toward her pool and the shimmering water reflecting from the sky-blue tile. A dragonfly was dancing above the wind-driven ripples, as if taunting her to come in, and so she did without thought for the clothes she was wearing.

She swam to keep from thinking about that brown envelope and the news it might bring, and when the grill was hot enough, she got out and put the steak on a red-hot grate, taking satisfaction in the sound of the sizzle.

It was just right.

Shrieks of laughter from her nearest neighbor's children rode the air over her eight foot privacy fence, while smoke from the cooking steak drifted across her line of vision. The sound of their joy cut through her like a knife. Had she ever been that happy and carefree? She must have been, but couldn't remember it, if she had.

She'd told no one about her past. Not even Andrew, although it was his passing that had given her permission to finally grieve for Damon as well, which in turn, resurrected the rage of his murder and her desire for justice.

The breeze stirred the scent of grilling meat, reminding her it was likely time to turn it, and so she did. Four minutes on each side, and she was done. She used to cook Andrew's steaks three minutes on each side, and he would have eaten it with less. But she couldn't see blood running on a plate and eat the food it lay on, and she couldn't tell him why.

She turned off the grill, carried the utensils and platter that she'd cooked with to the kitchen, and came back with a clean plate for her steak.

The cold air made her wet clothes clammy against her skin, but she spent most of every day in the wind and sun, so she wasn't going to complain. She made herself a salad while the steak was resting, then grabbed the hot sauce and carried it all to the table. She ate for the body fuel it was, rather than savoring it as food.

It wasn't until she'd finished her meal and cleaned up the kitchen that she picked up the brown envelope again. This time she took it with her into the den along with another glass of iced tea, and settled into Andrew's recliner. It was a poor substitute for one of his hugs, but on most days, it sufficed.

She kicked back, took a quick sip of tea, then tore into the envelope and pulled out several sheets of paper.

---

Dear Ms. Talman,

Regarding your request for information as to how many men drove white, late model Chevrolet Silverado pickup trucks in and around Bluejacket, Louisiana in July of 2008, we identified sixteen in that parish as well as two surrounding ones.

With regard to how many of those men lost their wives within six months of that date, there are three who lived in Bluejacket:

Camren Stephens' wife, Julia, died in a wreck.

Roger Franklin's wife, Trena, died during surgery.

Peyton Adams' wife, Mona, drowned in the family pool—under the influence.

An added addendum to this list is of two other men who were divorced by their wives during that time:

Tony Warren divorced his wife, Ellen, who subsequently moved away.

Danny Bales divorced his wife, Connie, and she, too, moved away.

I am including current addresses and contact information for all the men listed.

Awaiting further instructions.

---

Sincerely,

Hank Rollins

Blue Sky Investigations

---

Logan read the names listed through several times, trying to place them in her memory, but couldn't. They were too old for her and would have been people Damon knew. Finally, she laid the paperwork aside and turned on the television to catch the late night news.

She sent an email to Blue Sky Investigations as she watched TV, letting Rollins know she'd received the packet and would contact him again if she needed further assistance. But seeing the names had given her the motivation she'd needed, and by the time she went to bed, her decision to go back to Bluejacket had been made.

She slept without dreaming until a siren going by the house woke her. She got up to make sure the emergency was not in her neighborhood, got a drink, and went back to sleep. The next time she woke, the alarm was going off, and it was time to do life all over again.

The thought of going back to Bluejacket had always been in the back of her mind. Knowing Damon's killer got away with murder was the pain in her gut that never went away. Before, she'd never known where to start looking, but now that she did, she had no reason to delay. There was no way to know what she'd find when she got there, but she would figure it out as she went.

All she had to do was make sure her business was in good hands before she left, and later, when she arrived on-site at the new housing addition, her general manager was there and with a coffee waiting for her.

"Black with two sugars," he said.

"Thanks, Wade," Logan said, and took a quick sip before setting it aside. "I have something to tell you."

Wade frowned.

"Should I sit down?"

"Not unless you're tired," she said.

He chuckled.

"So talk to me," he said.

"I have to go to Louisiana. I'm leaving tomorrow, which means you will be in charge of everything until I get back."

"How long will you be gone?" he asked.

"Not sure. I have some loose strings from my past that need to be tied."

There was a long moment of silence as Wade looked at her, and she looked everywhere else but at him. Finally, he asked. "Are you in trouble?"

Logan looked up. "No."

Wade eyed the steady look she gave him until he was satisfied, and then nodded.

"Okay then. So what's on for today?"

"Letting the site managers know I'm leaving, and that you'll be in charge. I won't be here tomorrow, so if there's anything you need to ask me, now's the time."

"I have one question," Wade said.

"Ask."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"The same thing I didn't tell Andrew," she said, then checked her agenda. "The roofing material for Talman eight and nine was backordered. I had an email about it when I got home last night." She handed him the paperwork she'd printed off. "Give them a call, see how long they think it will be, and if it becomes an issue, look into finding the same product somewhere else."

Wade watched the way her lips moved as the words came out of her mouth, knowing there were important things she wasn’t saying. He'd always known she kept most of her past to herself, but it had never been his place to push. Now, she had admitted there was a secret, and what she didn't say worried him. Still, she was the boss, so he simply agreed.

"Will do," Wade said.

"As soon as I've notified everyone, I'm going home to pack," Logan said.

"Are you flying?" Wade asked.

She shook her head and looked away. "No. I'm taking the Hummer."

He didn't like that she wouldn't meet his gaze. His instincts were right. Something was going on.

"So, Boss, make me a promise. If you get into trouble, call."

Logan nodded. "Promise made."

Logan left Dallas on I-20 with the new morning sun in her eyes. She crossed into Louisiana hours later and took I-49 South while the heat waves coming off the concrete shimmered eerily in the distance like a doorway into another dimension. If she drove fast enough, could she jump into that realm, and if she did, who and what would she find? Was Damon there, still waiting for justice?

Hang on, brother. I'm coming.

Ten years had gone a long way in changing the looks of the countryside, but the closer Logan got to bayou country, the more anxious she became. The twinge of eye strain from the trip was turning into a headache, and the nerves she'd ridden with had become a knot in her belly. She was topping a hill about thirty miles from Bluejacket when she hit the brakes, coming to a sliding stop only feet from running over a massive alligator taking its own sweet time crossing the highway. It triggered the memory of hurrying to bury Damon's body before a gator dragged it into the swamp, and that set the tone for the rest of the trip to a feeling of unease.

As soon as the gator crossed, she drove on, but the headache had become a thundering pain, and the knot in her gut was growing. All of a sudden, she hit the brakes again, bailing out of the Hummer just in time to throw up while struggling to catch her breath between one gut-wrenching spasm after another.

Weak tears blurred her vision as she finally crawled back behind the wheel, grabbed her water bottle, and took a few careful sips to make sure they stayed down. With a shaky hand, she turned the air conditioner on high and drove the rest of the way into Bluejacket with it blowing in her face.

It was a couple of hours before sundown when she reached the City Limits. The sight reminded her of the overwhelming grief she'd been in the last time she'd passed by this sign, and she could almost hear her brother's voice.

Okay, Sister, be careful. You are stirring up ghosts.

She passed the Bayou Motel on the north end of town, which was new to her, then the Bait Shack with the little diner called the Shrimp Shack sitting next to it. Locals stopped what they were doing to look up as she drove by. She was aware that the grumble of the big engine and the rumbling from the Hummer's muffler sounded like a hot rod, which was why Andrew had liked it.

She wouldn't look, but she sensed eyes on her. They couldn't see her for the smoky glass on all the windows, but she knew they were wondering who was behind the wheel.

She drove all the way through town, past the Police Station, which still looked the same, then past Friendly's Grocery, and all the way to the south end of the street before going back to the motel through a residential neighborhood. She drove slowly for the hell of it, looking for familiar faces and places until she reached the motel.

She parked at the office, grabbed the wallet from her shoulder bag, strode inside, and then stopped abruptly. The woman behind the counter was Teresa Wallis—her old neighbor from across the street. But when the woman glanced up and gave her little more than a cursory glance, she breathed easier. It's not like she expected to remain anonymous, but the longer she could investigate before anyone figured out who she was, the better.

"I have a reservation," Logan said. "Logan Talman."

"Right. I'll need to see your driver's license and a credit card."

Logan pulled the cards out and slid them over the counter.

"Dallas, Texas, huh? Just passing through?"

"I'll be here a while," Logan said, and returned the cards to her wallet.

"Got you in Room 4A, facing the street midway down. There's a small coffee station in your room as well as a mini-fridge and Cable TV."

Logan took the key card.

Teresa was frowning now, staring at Logan.

"You look familiar," Teresa said.

"I get that a lot," Logan said, and left the office.

She drove down to 4A and parked in front of the door, then grabbed her things and went inside.

The room smelled and looked clean enough. It would do. She tossed her bag on the bed, hung up the clothes she'd brought in on hangars, and then turned around and walked out. There was still about an hour of daylight and places she needed to see.

All three men on her list had local addresses.

Camren Stephens and Roger Franklin owned their own businesses here in town, and the last one, Peyton Adams was a local lawyer.

Tony Warren, whose wife, Ellen, divorced him and left town, was retired and in a house not far from the high school.

Danny Bales, also divorced and remarried, lived on the south side.

Five men, and she was certain one of them had killed her brother.

Logan left the motel with her heart pounding. It's been said one can never go home, and yet here she was driving down the street where she and Damon used to live.

The hair crawled on the back of her neck as she drove past the house. It looked like the last ten years might never have happened, and that if she went slow enough, Damon would come the front door and wave her down.

Some man was working on a car in the driveway next door. He paused to watch as she rolled past. A teenager was mowing grass a few houses down, and an old woman across the street was outside watering flowers with a garden hose in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She looked familiar, but Logan couldn't place her.

She drove past the high school, wondering about her friend, Caitlin Kincaid, and if she’d left Bluejacket after graduation like she had said she would?

Finally satisfied she'd seen enough, she entered an address in her GPS and within a couple of minutes, found the residence belonging to Camren Stephens. It was a nice house on the north side with the three cars in the driveway, which attested to a comfortable life.

The second address she entered was for Roger Franklin, the second name on the list. His residence was a grand house on the outskirts of town with ornate landscaping more suited to old-style plantation living.

The third address belonged to the lawyer, Peyton Adams, and as she drove past, was startled to see it was where her friend, Caitlin, used to live. Then she remembered Caitie's mom had remarried when she and Caitie were twelve, and Logan began to remember a well-dressed man always in the background at the house, but she couldn’t remember his name. Caitie had referred to her stepdad as Pops, which told her nothing. Or, she might be worrying for nothing. They could as easily all moved away after Logan left Bluejacket and Adams was just the current occupant.

By now the sun had set. It was too late to look at any more houses and her belly was growling. She needed to eat. As she drove back through town, she spotted Barney's Café, a place where she and Damon used to go on occasion, and pulled into the parking lot.

She got out to the scent of hot grease and deep-fried fish as she walked across the graveled parking lot on her way inside. A cop car drove past, moving slowly. She didn't know if someone was curious about the stranger in town, or if this was part of the regular patrol route. Either way, she didn't care.

Within seconds of entering, she recognized the waitress working the first table. Her name was Juniper, but everyone used to call her Junie. Logan noticed her hair was still the same brassy shade of blonde, and she was still too skinny for her clothes. She'd had a big crush on Damon, always flirting outrageously when they came in to eat.

"Grab a seat anywhere," Junie said. "I'll be with you shortly."

Logan had a choice. The table against the back wall, or sit beside a table full of men. She chose the one at the back of the room, and as she wove her way among the seated customers, felt every man in the room watching it happen. She knew she turned heads, but it wasn't anything that gave her pleasure. It was damned difficult to run a male-dominated business when people didn't take her seriously because of how she looked.

Logan chose the chair facing the room, and then reached for the menu already on the table. She was looking through the specials when someone slid into a chair at her table.

"I thought that was you. Lord, lord, but you did grow up fine."

She glanced up, then frowned. So much for anonymity.

"Hello, T-Boy."

"Where did y’all go? You just disappeared."

"Last time I heard your voice you were begging me to let you in the house," she said.

He frowned.

She stared back.

Junie showed up at her table.

"Is he joining you?" she asked.

"No," Logan said. "I'll have a bowl of gumbo and some sweet tea, heavy on the ice."

"You got it," Junie said, and hurried off.

"You’ve changed," T-Boy said.

Logan eyed the dreadlocks and number of tattoos on T-Boy's pale skin.

"You haven't."

A dark flush spread across his face, and then he shrugged and grinned.

"I guess I can't be pissed about the truth. Where's your brother?"

"Minding his own business," she said.

"You still got that ball bat?" he asked.

"Traded it for a Colt 45."

"Jesus Christ, Conway. I was just trying to be friendly."

"Talman. I'm Logan Talman, and you were never friendly to me. You just wanted in my pants. It didn't happen then, and it's not gonna happen now."

T-Boy held up his hands, then grinned, got up and walked away.

Logan watched where he sat, eyeing the men with him, and then made a mental note to keep her handgun close while she was in town. A couple of minutes later, Junie came back with the iced tea and a basket of hot hush puppies.

"Gumbo comin' up. Hush puppies to tide you over," Junie said, and then gave Logan a second look. "I know you, don't I?"

Logan shrugged.

"I used to live here when I was younger."

It was the sound of Logan's voice that triggered Junie's memory.

"You're Damon Conway's little sister! Wow, you grew up to be a real pretty woman. How is he doing?"

"He's in a good place, Junie. Better than all of us."

Junie sighed.

"You give him my best."

"I will," Logan said.

Junie nodded and hurried off.

Logan popped a hush puppy into her mouth, savoring the greasy crunch and the dash of heat from the jalapenos the cook had added to the batter.

When Junie served her bowl of gumbo, she brought fresh hush puppies to go with it, then left Logan alone to eat.

Logan didn't recognize any other diners, but there was a person in Barney's, who went by the nickname of Big Boy, and he damn sure recognized her. When she'd first come in, she’d looked enough like her brother to stop his heart. He thought for moment he was seeing a ghost, but then he’d changed his mind when he saw the long hair and the swell of her breasts. She was beautiful, but she reminded him of the nightmare he'd lived with for months after offing her brother.

He’d spent days after the shooting expecting someone to knock on his door with an arrest warrant. It wasn't until after the fact that he’d remembered Damon had a younger sister. He'd probably told her where he was going when he’d left the house, and who he’d been going to meet. And when her brother hadn't come home, she would have called the cops and given them a name. He should have been the first person the cops came looking for, yet none of that had happened, and he'd never understood why.

All he did know was when he’d gone looking for her, she was gone. Then he’d driven out to the site where he'd left Conway's body, only to find both the body and the truck Conway had driven there were gone. He knew where the body was. The gators had dragged it off. And the truck could have easily been stolen. It had been running with the keys in it when Big Boy had left the site, and wherever the little sister was, it wasn't in Bluejacket.

As time passed, his panic subsided to the occasional nightmare...until today. Now he was sitting on the opposite side of the dining room watching Damon's sister, and her body language was obvious. It said, “don't mess with me”. But she'd made a mistake in coming back, because Big Boy was going to mess with her, big time.