“Jesus Christ,” Dev muttered, staring down at the estate papers.

Not only had Lawrence owned the Mercedes and left it to Sabrina upon his passing, Dev had discovered that Lawrence owned a property in the French Quarter, a building that apparently housed a business and an apartment. Something about the address was familiar to him.

Chartres Street.

In the estate, the property was listed as being held under de Vincent Properties, but it wasn’t a property in their portfolio, so that left the question of who was managing it and why was it kept separate?

Better yet, did Lawrence really think he wouldn’t eventually discover this place? The Mercedes was one thing—one really fucked-up thing—but an entire property? Eventually, something would’ve come up on it. Taxes. A claim. Something.

Dev sat back, slowly shaking his head. He knew that Sabrina had a closeted relationship with Stefan, but not Lawrence. So why in the world would Lawrence leave a car to her?

Then again, maybe Sabrina had a relationship with Lawrence.

God.

Disgust swirled through him like a windstorm. He never knew what had connected Sabrina to Stefan. Was it just sex? The woman did have a . . . unique appetite for men with power, even if it was only perceived that they wielded that power. But Lawrence? The man Sabrina believed to be his father? But if she had no problem sleeping with his uncle, he may be giving her too much credit thinking she would have a problem with his father.

Dev just didn’t get it.

It was one of the questions he needed Sabrina to answer. Why did she want to marry him when she’d been all twisted up in her infatuation with Gabe, sleeping with Stefan, possibly Lawrence? There had to be more to it, and with her having a vehicle Lawrence had left her, he knew it probably meant she was wrapped up in what Lawrence was involved in.

Lawrence was a disease and Dev had a feeling he’d only scratched the surface of how infectious he’d truly been, how many people he’d involved.

But he really couldn’t blame all of Sabrina’s actions on Lawrence, now, could he? That woman hadn’t been stable. Dev had known it—known it for a long time. It was why he’d involved himself with her, because if he hadn’t? He thought of Gabe, and his stomach twisted. The problem with his plan when it came to Sabrina was the fact that he thought he could control her.

He’d been dead wrong on that.

Sitting forward, he brought up Google and quickly typed in the address of the property. The map appeared and to the left of the page was the picture of the property.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, recoiling from his computer. “No way.”

He immediately recognized the two-story black-and-brick Creole town house. It was one of many in the Quarter, but he’d been at this one. Recently. There was no forgetting the voodoo shop on the first floor or the apartment on the second level.

Or the woman who lived in the apartment.

Lawrence owned the building that Rosie Herpin lived in.

Dev barked out a short, harsh laugh as he stared at the picture on the web page. Even if he believed in coincidences, this would be too much. Rosie was way too connected. Friends with Nikki. Tied to Ross Haid. Claimed that the spirit of Lawrence had told her he was murdered, and now she was living in a property owned by de Vincent Properties and hidden by Lawrence.

Hell . . .

He picked up the papers again, his free hand curling into a fist as anger flushed through him. There were several properties owned by them throughout the state of Louisiana, so why would this one be hidden?

Dev needed to find out, and that meant he needed to discover not only who was managing the building, but also what could possibly be in that building that Lawrence had been hiding. And someone with beautiful hazel eyes and a fiery attitude that went straight to his dick had a hell of a lot of explaining to do, starting—

Thump.

Dev stilled.

Thump.

What in the hell? Lowering the papers to his desk, he lifted his head.

Thump.

There it was again, a distinctive thump against . . . against the floor, from the room down below.

Lawrence’s office was directly below his.

Now, that made no sense, because no one was allowed to be in the room. Not even Besson.

He closed the file and then reached into his desk, grabbing the key to the office below. He took the outside entrance since it was quicker, coming in through the back door on the main floor. He stalked down the empty hall, reaching the closed doors of Lawrence’s office. He turned the handle.

The door was locked.

“The hell?” His eyes narrowed as he heard the sound again. Thump. It was definitely coming from within the office.

Shoving the key into the lock, he pushed open the door. Cool air wafted out as he stepped into the room. Faint sunlight seeped under the blinds and crept across the hardwood floors. The oriental carpet had been removed, but other than that, the office looked the way Lawrence had left it.

His gaze lifted to the ceiling fan. It whirled slowly and it was by no means the source of the sound, but he knew that fan would’ve been turned off. Besson wouldn’t have left it on when the room was sealed up.

He thought about what Stefan said about Nebraska. That was something he was going to need to check on. Just not right at the moment.

The edges of the key dug into his palm as he stared up at the ceiling. Took no amount of effort for him to see Lawrence hanging from that fan. Dev’s upper lip curled. What that man—

An icy breath of air blew along the nape of his neck. Dev twisted at the waist, but no one stood behind him.

No one he could see, at least.

He dragged his teeth over his bottom lip as he scanned the office. There was nothing that could’ve been making that sound or causing the blast of icy air.

Walking out of the office, he closed and locked the door. He took only one step before he heard the noise again. A distinct thump coming from the office.

Eyes glued to the laptop screen, Rosie reached blindly for her wineglass. She knew if she looked away for just a second, she could miss something in the film from the Mendez house.

Ghosts didn’t exactly lollygag around.

So far there’d been nothing but a few dust bunnies floating by. She guessed ghosts also played it low-key on Sundays.

Blowing out a long, low breath, she kept her gaze focused on the screen. Jilly and Liz had reviewed the tapes from Lucian’s place and given her an update this afternoon. Nothing remarkable had been on the film, but there was what they thought might be orbs. They sent it to Lance to go over and were waiting for Devlin to reach out to them.

As far as she knew, he hadn’t since she’d texted him.

Her fingers brushed the side of her glass and she snatched it up before it toppled over. Taking a sip, she wiggled her sock-covered toes as she scooted farther down into the couch.

The Mendez family still hadn’t given them permission to do any more longer, extensive investigations, especially after the activity seemed to have died down, but they’d allowed the cameras to be set up again and to keep running. For now. Rosie had a feeling that would change if the activity continued to decline.

And that wasn’t uncommon. Sometimes there was a burst of activity and then nothing for months or even years.

She straightened her glasses as she stared at the hallway on the screen. The time of the film at the bottom right hand read 2:34 a.m. , and Rosie let out a sigh. This was the only part that sucked when it came to investigations. There were a lot of nothingburgers to get to the Big Mac, and that was if you ever caught anything.

And there were people like Devlin who had no idea how much work went into something like this. It wasn’t a hobby. It was like a job—one you didn’t get paid for—but she guessed after Saturday night, he had a whole new understanding of what it took.

God, she was so distracted.

She hit pause on the film and downed the rest of her wine in a gulp that Sarah would’ve been proud of. Setting her glass aside, she let her head fall back.

She was done with him, but the part of her brain that wanted to know the exact moment Ian had decided to end his life was the same part that had led her to study psychology at the University of Alabama. She liked to figure people out.

And Devlin? The man gave her whiplash. Believed in ghosts but apparently only the ones who haunted his house. Had a near-death experience, but believed psychics were a crock. Obviously trusted no one, but had shared something so incredibly personal with her and he barely knew her. Accused her of being in on some major conspiracy to take his family down, but also wanted to bring her back to his place for some naughty shenanigans. Irritated the crap out of her, but could also bring her to the heights of pleasure with a kiss and a brush of his fingers.

She could’ve done a graduate thesis on this man.

Staring up at her ceiling, she pressed her lips together. Why was she thinking about him? There’d been men she’d actually had relationships with who she thought about less, which was freaking ridiculous, because she had—

A knock at her front door snapped her out of her thoughts. Sitting up, she clutched the laptop before it slid off her bare legs. She glanced at the time. It was close to nine at night and while it wasn’t all that late, she wasn’t expecting anyone.

Then again, since her place was in the Quarter, there were often random friends showing up unannounced to basically dry out before they attempted to head home.

Setting the laptop on the coffee table, she rose and walked to the front door as she tugged the ends of her long, thigh-length gray cardigan together. She was just wearing a tank underneath and sleep shorts, so she wasn’t exactly dressed for company.

She unlocked the dead bolt and cracked the door open just enough to see who stood outside, and it was enough to send her heart exploding right out of her chest. She was shocked into a frozen state of silence as her gaze crawled over smoothly coiffed black hair, aqua-blue eyes framed by impossibly thick lashes, and a jaw hard enough to cut through granite.

Devlin de Vincent was at her apartment.

Again.