Big Boy was sitting on a corner of the bed, staring out the window into the dark, starry sky, wishing he’d made a different choice and had never called Damon Conway. If he hadn't been such a coward, he would have just found a way to kill his wife without involving anyone else. But it was too late for regrets.

He'd thought about pulling a disappearing act all evening, but didn't have the guts to walk away from the money. Most of it was tied up in investments, and it took time to liquidate.

He glanced over his shoulder at the woman in his bed. Without makeup and in the dark, she could have been any woman. He'd been so caught up in the lust of a pretty face and sexy body that he'd cold-heartedly done away with his woman of substance. He hadn't had one serious conversation with his second wife in the entire time he'd known her. The only thing she understood was using her body to get what she wanted. The only thing she was good at was sex.

Disheartened by his choices, he got up and went to the window. His bedroom overlooked the rose gardens at the back of the house. Even in the dark, they were beautiful. He used to walk among them at night, their fragrance more concentrated in the evening when the air grew heavy and still.

He hadn't walked at night in a very long time and followed the urge all the way to the closet for shoes. You didn't walk barefoot at night in Louisiana unless you were a gambler willing to risk your life on a snake.

With a quick look at the bed to make sure Sugar was still sleeping, he slipped out of the room and then hurried down the stairs and turned off the alarm.

His tennis shoes made little squeaky sounds on the marble flooring as he moved down the hall into the library, his steps hastening with anticipation as he exited through the French doors onto the back verandah.

The scent of jasmine met him at the bottom steps and then followed him through the winding path until he came upon the roses. The aroma of glorious blooms was an aphrodisiac, lulling him into a false sense of all is well.

The soft, nearly soundless flap of wings behind him was all the warning he was going to get from an owl on the hunt. The rustle in the bushes stopped him momentarily until he identified the sound with the possum that came waddling out.

The tree frogs were singing loudly, announcing his presence with a most splendid show of their music, giving way only to a low buzz from the cicadas—the white noise of the night.

It was the familiar he'd known as a kid, sleeping in the back bedroom of his mama and daddy's shack down on the bayou. With windows open to catch the faintest of breezes, but tightly screened to keep out what didn't belong inside, he'd fallen asleep to this midnight lullaby. Then he’d grown up, gotten rich, and was living a life as a man with two faces.

The winding path through the roses was paved with reclaimed brick from an Antebellum property outside of New Orleans. It pleased his fancy to imagine the countless feet of people long dead who had walked on this brick in ages past—before he'd had them moved here to Bluejacket—back when he'd believed that owning what someone else had lost somehow counted as one-upping the Universe.

The path ended at a stone bench within the center of the roses. The words “Angels Among Us” had been carved into the back, with angel wings forming the arms of the bench. He sat, then tilted his head up to the vast infinity of a dark, starry sky. So beautiful, and a far better view from the window of his room.

There was no priest on the seat beside him, and even though he hadn't been inside a church since the day after he'd buried his wife, he still felt the need to seek absolution.

"Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. It's been something over ten years since my last confession."

He spoke in whispers, because confessing aloud to anyone but God would put him in prison. And then the longer he spoke, the quieter the night sounds became.

Cicadas quit singing. The tree frogs fell silent.

And when he had finished, he realized the sweet scents of his garden had faded into the background, giving way to a more predominant scent—the putrid scent of death.

He stood abruptly, looking first at the bench, then to the ground below it, imagining at any moment his first wife's skeletal fingers thrusting up through the earth, digging her way out of the place where he'd buried her.

"You're dead. Stay where you are," he muttered, and then started toward the house.

But the farther he walked, the more certain he became that he was being followed. Afraid to look, he lengthened his stride, and by the time he reached the house, he was running.

At home, Chief Evans was just Josh to the woman who shared his life. He and his high school sweetheart, Lorene, had been married nearly fifteen years. She meant more to him now than she had even when love was young and new, and the research he'd been doing on Logan Talman's case was both horrifying and depressing. He couldn't imagine losing his Reenie, let alone be the one to end her life.

Now that most of his officers were back on duty, he made a point to go home on time, and tonight after their supper, he got up from the table and began helping her clean.

Lorene glanced at him more than once before she finally spoke up.

"Sweetheart, I don't know what's gotten into you, but I like it."

Josh looked up from loading dishes into the dishwasher, and saw past the wear and tear of her day, to the blue-eyed girl who'd stolen his heart.

"Reenie, I don't tell you nearly enough how much I appreciate you, or how much I love you," he said.

Her eyes widened with surprise.

"Well, my goodness honey...thank you. I love you, too."

He dried his hands and took her into his arms, resting his chin on the crown of her head.

Lorene had known him for too many years not know that this was more than a husband's guilty conscience for his recent absence from home.

She laid her cheek against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. The steady thump of his heartbeat was her touchstone to the rhythm of her life.

"What's wrong, Josh, and don't say nothing. I know you better than that."

"I can't talk about all of it right now, but soon. Suffice it to say, it’s the negative part of my job, okay?"

She hugged him tighter.

"As long as it's not me causing you pain, I can handle anything," Lorene said.

"We're good. We'll always be good," Josh said, and took the dish towel out of her hands. "You. Go. Run yourself a big old bubble bath and soak yourself into a little prune."

She giggled.

"I won't turn down an invitation like that," she said, and left the kitchen with a skip in her step.

Josh sighed, then turned back to the dirty dishes and kept rinsing and loading.

"If only it was this easy to wash away sin."

They woke Logan up when they served the evening meal, hoping she would feel like eating something.

She picked through some of it and drank her iced tea while watching Wade eat the meal he'd ordered, plus what was left of hers. Soon afterward, her nurse came into the room to check vitals.

"Do you need me to leave?" Wade asked.

Before the nurse could answer, Logan interrupted.

"No. I don't want you to leave," she said, and then blushed. "I just meant, you don't have to," and looked away.

Wade's heart hurt for the lost expression on her face.

"Don't worry...I've got your six, Boss."

Logan looked up at him.

"You've always had my six. I just don't think I ever recognized how much you do on my behalf, so, thank you, Wade."

The seriousness caught him by surprise.

"You're welcome, but I don't need thanks for doing something I wanted to do."

"Okay then," the nurse said, and began going through the routine.

She was kind and friendly, and properly horrified that something this awful had happened in Bluejacket. She kept saying things like, "This kind of stuff never happens here," but Logan knew better. She'd seen a body in the street in front of their house the same night Damon had been murdered.

Finally, the nurse finished. "Is there anything else you need? I'll bring fresh ice water in a little while."

"No, I'm fine. I don't need anything," Logan said, then heard Wade mutter something about “being fine and getting shot in the back are not synonymous,” but she didn't argue. She knew she'd scared him. For that matter, she'd scared herself, too.

Wade didn't comment, even though he knew she'd heard him, and then gave her a look before checking texts on his phone.

"Is everything okay back home?" Logan asked.

"According to McGuire, who I left in charge, there were no big snags today other than Carter shot himself in the foot with a nail gun."

"Oh my God," Logan muttered, and raised the head of her bed up enough so she could talk. "Is he okay?"

"He's going to be okay, but he's off work for at least a week. That's going to make that crew one guy short."

"Then tell McGuire to either call Xavier Santiago or Joey Chavez. They've filled in for us before."

"Ah...yes, good call," Wade said. "I've got their numbers, I think."

"I have their numbers in my phone, which is in my purse, wherever that is."

"I have them, too," Wade said, and made the calls.

Xavier was busy, but Joey Chavez was glad for the work. Wade told him where to show up tomorrow, and that McGuire was in charge, then he sent McGuire a text to that effect and hoped that was the last problem to solve for the day.

"All is well," he said, as he put his phone aside, then looked up and noticed Logan had fallen asleep.

He lowered the head of her bed so she could sleep better, then straightened the covers. The last thing he did was smooth the hair away from her face. He'd often wished he could spend more time with her, but not like this.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease tense muscles as he moved to the window on the other side of her bed.

The sky was littered with starlight as far as the eye could see. It looked beautiful, but dark in bayou country was dangerous.

Weary all the way to his bones, Wade finally gave up and stretched out in the recliner, pulled the extra blanket they'd given him up past his waist, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep within minutes, but his sleep was restless. Too focused on making sure she stayed safe, he never really blocked out the sounds. The shower in her bathroom had a drip, and the scent of antiseptic was too strong to ignore. Outside in the hallway, one police officer traded duty with the other, and he heard them talking about the case.

Nurses came and went throughout the night, and each time they came into her room, Wade was on his feet, drilling them with questions. Once when Logan woke up enough to focus, she heard him talking. Knowing he was present to look out for her when she was so vulnerable gave her a whole new perspective on how much he meant to her, only she didn't know how to categorize it. She wanted to tell him, but she was too out of it to stay awake.

With daylight came the beginning of a new agenda for Josh. He was getting ready to start what could prove to be an interesting day. He kissed Reenie goodbye and drove straight to the office. When he walked in the back door, Paul Robicheau was up and pacing his cell.

"I better be getting my day in court today," he yelled.

"A court appointed lawyer has your info. He should be here some time before arraignment, so you need to be thinking about how you're going to plead," Evans said.

Robicheau slapped the flat of his hand against the bars.

"Well hell, I'll be pleading innocent."

Evans grinned.

"You do know there's at least fifteen people in Bluejacket can attest to the opposite, not to mention the woman who flat out caught you trying to break into her car."

"I heard she got shot," Robicheau said.

Evans frowned.

"That's true, but she's nowhere close to dead. You take this to court, her testimony will nail your ass to the wall."

"Just my luck," Robicheau muttered.

His shoulders slumped as he backed up and dropped onto the cot.

Josh frowned. "Do you just hear your damn self?" he snapped.

"What?" Robicheau said.

"The fact that you need someone to die just so you can get yourself out of the mess you caused is disgusting."

Then Josh strode past the cells and into the precinct, slamming the door between them good and hard to punctuate his point.

"Loser," he muttered, and went straight to the break room for a cup of coffee which he carried to his office.

He sat down behind his desk, took a quick sip, and then set the coffee aside as he checked the clock. By the time he got the phone numbers to go with the names, it would be eight a.m. Since these were not social calls, he felt confident that proper manners did not apply.

He made the first call, then kicked back in his chair, waiting for it to be answered. He didn't know how Camren Stephens was going to react, but he'd soon find out.

Camren had just finished shaving and was still getting dressed when his wife, Ashley, came hurrying into the room and pointed at their phone.

"Is the ringer still turned off on that phone?" she asked.

"Yes, why?" he asked.

"Because the chief of police is on the phone and wants to talk to you."

Camren frowned.

"Really? Wonder what he wants?" he said, then sat down on the side of the bed and picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Chief Evans?"

"Hello, Camren. Sorry to call so early, but we've got ourselves a little situation here, and I need your help."

"Of course. Happy to help. What do you need?"

"I need you to come in to the office this morning and answer some questions for me. How soon can you get here?"

Camren frowned.

"Come to the office to answer questions? What kind of questions?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, they have to do with your first wife's death. It won't take long, and I'm sure you can clear up the inconsistencies in the report. We didn't have a proper police chief at that time, and some of the paperwork wasn't done."

"Oh. Well. My goodness, yes, I guess I can do that," he said. "I'll be there as soon as I finish getting dressed."

"Thank you," Josh said, and disconnected, wishing he could have seen Camren's reaction.

"What did he want?" Ashley asked.

"To talk to me about Julia's death."

Ashley gasped.

"What? Why?"

Camren shrugged.

"He said something about the man who was standing in as chief at the time didn't finish up some of the paperwork properly."

"Oh. Well, I guess that's okay," she said.

Camren frowned.

"What the hell do you mean, you guess it's okay? You don't pass judgment on me."

Ashley frowned.

"Well, what you do reflects on me, too, smart ass. So, if you're in trouble, I have a right to know." Then her eyes narrowed. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"Yes! Get the hell out of the room!" he shouted, and started toward her.

She backed out and then slammed the door between them.

He glared, and not for the first time, wondered why he'd bothered to remarry.

The chief decided to skip Roger Franklin. His wife had not died under suspicious circumstances. He’d had no life insurance policy on her, and he had never remarried. If necessary, he could always go back and do it later, but the police did not have a file on her death because it had happened in a hospital, so he couldn't use the interim police chief story as an excuse.

The next person he called was Peyton Adams, and Peyton was a loose cannon. There was no way to tell how he would receive this, but that was beside the point. There wasn't anyone madder sadder, or more indignant than Logan Talman, and she had the right to feel that way.

Peyton was at the breakfast table having waffles with his wife, Candy. Sophie, their cook, had just brought a fresh plate of bacon strips to the table when the landline rang in the house.

"I'll get that for you, sir," Sophie said. She came back holding a cordless phone. "Chief Evans for you."

Peyton frowned as he put the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Josh."

Josh frowned. By using his first name, Peyton thought he'd taken the power out of his call.

"Hello, Peyton. I'm calling on business. I need you to come by the office this morning and answer some questions for me."

"Questions? What questions?"

"Regarding the death of your first wife. During the time of her accident, there was an interim police chief who did not properly close out some of his cases, so that duty now falls to me."

"Oh, are you serious?"Peyton drawled.

Josh frowned. Peyton's sarcasm was obvious.

"Actually, yes, very serious," Josh said.

That was not the response Peyton had expected, and he began shifting his attitude.

"Well, I suppose I can stop by—"

Josh interrupted.

"You do understand this isn't really your decision. I require you to do this, if that makes it easier for you."

Peyton heard a tone in the voice that made him nervous. It had taken forever to clear her death, and now this was popping up. God almighty, what was going on here?

"I can be there a little after nine."

"That's fine. You may have to wait. You're not the only one I'm calling."

"Okay," Peyton muttered, and blinked when the line suddenly disconnected in his ear.

"What's going on?" Candy asked.

Peyton handed the phone back to Sophie, who walked out of the room.

"The strangest thing. It has to do with Mona's drowning. There was a temporary police chief when it happened who didn't close the case properly, and Evans said he needs to ask me some questions."

"That's so strange," Candy said. "Are you okay? I mean, is this going to be upsetting for you?"

"You're so sweet," Peyton said. "No, it's not upsetting. Just strange."

He put a couple of slices of bacon onto his plate and poured more syrup on what was left of his waffles before finishing his breakfast. A short time later, he was out the door.