The Lost Girls of Johnson's Bayou. Jana DeLeonЧитать онлайн книгу.
fabric and searched through the furniture after the fire. What were they looking for? Money? Jewels?
Or were they like him—looking for answers?
He couldn’t picture the spotlight waif tearing through furniture with a hunting knife, but maybe she was a good actress and had fooled him completely. Maybe she hadn’t been afraid or startled in the least and the story about the child had been designed to distract him from whatever she was doing at the house. The worst part was, it had worked.
He walked down a long hallway and shone his light into the rooms, looking for any sign of recent entry, but he found only the same mess as he’d seen in the front room. No little girl. No intruder. No bogeyman.
At the end of the hall, he looked out a huge picture window into the pitch-black swamp and blew out a breath. He had intended to make it to the house from the backside of the swamp during daylight. It would have been far easier to search, and no one lived anywhere near the back entrance into the swamp he’d planned to use. But work had delayed him and he’d arrived at sunset. Not willing to wait to get a first glance, he’d foolishly made the choice to approach the house entering the swamp in town, as the town was closer to the house than the back way he’d originally chosen. Now, he’d been caught by a local.
Tomorrow morning, he needed to find out what he could about the woman, Ginny Bergeron. Make sure she wasn’t going to be a problem. Because another problem was the last thing he needed.
GINNY PULLED HER LONG, straight hair through a ponytail holder and smoothed out the wrinkles in her café T-shirt. She’d overslept, which was rare, but then she usually didn’t spend part of her night scared out of her wits by a stranger in the swamp and then sit up for hours with every light in her apartment blazing. She’d even overcooked the roast and now had tough, leathery sandwiches to look forward to for days.
Her mind had raced last night, even after she’d finally drifted off to sleep, and plagued her with dreams so vivid that she felt she was there. The house and a child were in her dreams, but she couldn’t see the child’s face. Now, in the bright light of the bathroom mirror, she wondered if the child in her dreams had been her. In the bright light of the bathroom mirror, she almost wondered if she’d heard the scream.
She shook her head. No, she wasn’t crazy. The scream had been real, but many things had stopped her from picking up the phone last night and calling the police. No proof. Everyone in town looking at her strangely again. The list went on and on, and there was no time to cover it all now.
She locked the apartment door behind her and hurried down the stairs. Today was the first day of the town’s annual Fall Festival and the café would be crowded early so that everyone could get to the town square and set up their booths. If a little girl was missing, Ginny would be certain to hear about it during breakfast service. Then she’d go to the police. If no one was missing, she would have to admit that her imagination had played tricks on her and figure out how she felt about that.
In the meantime, she was almost late for work, and the last thing she needed was to give her mother any indication that her life was not calm and, if not perfect, at least boring. Madelaine looked up from her bowl of pancake mix as Ginny exited the stairwell into the kitchen. She gave her a critical once-over, then went back to mixing the batter.
“Thought maybe you were calling in sick,” Madelaine said.
“No, sorry. Just overslept. I stayed up too late working on jewelry,” Ginny lied.
The bit of worry in Madelaine’s face relaxed. Her mother knew better than anyone how time could escape Ginny when she was making jewelry. “I thought you had everything ready for the festival already?”
“I did…do…just a last-minute thought.” Ginny tied an apron around her waist and slipped an order pad into one of the front pockets. She glanced down at her watch. “Is the coffee on out front?”
Madelaine nodded. “Did it first thing. Turned on the two pots in here, as well. Gonna be busy this morning.”
“Praise God and bring the customers,” Ginny said, quoting one of Madelaine’s favorite sayings.
Madelaine grinned. “If business goes well this week, we might even close for a bit. Go up to New Orleans and have somebody paint our toenails pink.”
Ginny laughed, a feeling of normalcy returning to her in a rush. “That sounds wonderful.” She glanced at the front of the café, where a crowd was already gathering outside. “It’s a couple minutes till, but I think I’ll take pity and let them in.”
Madelaine nodded and Ginny opened the front door of the café at 5:49 a.m. to a happy roar of locals.
Two hours later, the last of the townspeople had completed the breakfast rush and Ginny slumped in a chair in the kitchen. Madelaine handed her a glass of iced tea and took a seat on a stool in front of the giant double sink teaming full of dishes.
“Busy one,” Madelaine said as Ginny took a huge drink of the cold tea.
“I think the good weather’s bringing everyone out.”
Madelaine nodded. “Should be a good turnout for the festival. Maybe some more New Orleans stores will see your jewelry and want to stock it.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed. It’s doing well at Sarah’s shop, but I’d love to have more distribution.”
Madelaine opened her mouth to reply, but the dinging of the bell on the front door stopped her. She motioned to Ginny, who was already rising from her chair. “You take a break for a minute. I’ll get the order. You can deliver the food.”
Ginny sank back down, grateful for the reprieve, no matter how slight. A couple of minutes later, Madelaine hustled back into the kitchen, scooped a huge cinnamon roll onto a plate and handed it to Ginny.
“That’s it?”
“No. He wants an omelet but asked to have this out first. And he’ll likely need a coffee refill, the way he was downing the first cup.”
“Who is it?” Ginny asked as she started toward the kitchen door.
Madelaine shrugged as she cracked eggs on the skillet. “Probably here for the festival.”
This early? The thought flashed through Ginny’s mind and just as quickly, a second thought hit her and she sucked in a breath. Surely not.
She pushed open the kitchen door just enough to scan the café without being seen. It was empty except for one booth on the far end from the door occupied by the man who, unfortunately, had his back to Ginny. You’re being foolish. What are the odds?
She pushed the door completely open and stepped into the café. She was only a couple of feet from the man’s table when he turned slightly to look up at her.
It was him. The man from the swamp.
Her heart rate spiked and she dropped her gaze to her hands, clutching the plate so hard, she thought it would snap. It took every ounce of control for her to set the plate in front of him. She forced herself to raise her head and meet his gaze, and she was surprised to notice he seemed out of sorts as well. He was older than she’d originally thought, maybe early thirties, but then her eyes had been on his gun last night and not him. His dark brown hair was a little long and lay in natural waves. Green eyes studied her as she reached for the coffeepot on the counter station and refilled his empty cup.
“Your omelet will be ready in a couple of minutes,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
He shook his head, but Ginny got the impression there was something he wanted to say but didn’t. She took that as her cue to exit, but as she turned to walk away, he grabbed her arm. She looked down at his hand, wrapped around her wrist, and wondered why this man made her feel so nervous, so off-balance.
“I probably owe you an apology,” he said and drew his hand back from her arm. “I didn’t mean to scare you last night, but you