The Isle Of Sin And Shadows - Keri Lake Page 0,106

shouldn’t have even been there. Imagine the investor for Daughters of Mercy staying in some big, fancy hotel. Just isn’t right. Sends the wrong message, I think, but every damn motel on this island was booked! So, I swear, I wasn’t spying on you and your female companion.”

Smiling, I nod. “Yes. I was there with a friend,” is all I offer.

Brow arched up, she shoots me a wily smile that does nothing but make me want to end this conversation. “She was very pretty. So, what brings you out to the middle of nowhere USA?”

“My employer owns this property. Asked me to check out some possible vandalism. You?”

“Interesting.” Huffing, she crosses her arms and looks around the property. “I was told, while I was in town, to have a look at this place as a possible investment for a future mental health facility. What do you know about it?”

Charpentier and mental health is an oxymoron, given the number of crazies who’ve claimed to see ghosts here. “It has a lot of history. Lot of stories surrounding it. Probably not the best place for anyone with mental health issues.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Bergeron? Evil spirits?”

“No.”

Swinging her attention back toward the house, she smiles. “I tend to think I don’t, either, but the suffering of some souls … how can they not leave just a small imprint of their lives behind when they die?”

The sentiment is lost on me. I like to think death is the black, empty screen after a quick run of credits. “Speaking of suffering souls, how is my sister?”

“Hardly suffering, I can assure you. I was there two days ago, and her therapist was giving her a nice deep tissue massage.”

“The nightmares continue?”

“I suspect, after what she saw, the nightmares won’t be going away any time soon.”

Relating to Frannie has been the most difficult part of understanding her condition. Trying to imagine even the most horrific death through the innocent eyes of a child is almost impossible for someone like me. Someone who’s witnessed far worse atrocities than a woman hanging from a rope. Aside from the pain of losing my mother, the only thought that crossed my mind when I found her body was that at least she chose how to die. “No. I suspect they won’t.”

“So, tell me, what’s the story behind this house?”

“You’re a Louisiana native who’s never heard of the Magnolia Lane murders?”

“I lead a somewhat sheltered life.”

“Some psychiatrist and his housekeeper were murdered here.”

“That’s a shame. Forgive my sounding insensitive, but what exactly makes this such an atrocity?”

My thoughts exactly. Call me desensitized, but when I first read about the murders, I can’t say I was as stunned as everyone else. “Guess it was pretty brutal. Hacked up by a machete.”

“A machete? Well, that is … quite brutal, as you said. What a sad and sorrowful history.” A glance around the property again, and she tightens her lips together. “I think someone should write a new story. Less tragic and more inspirational. A home that welcomes young, abandoned, and deeply disturbed children in a loving, caring environment.”

“Is that your advertising tagline? It’s brilliant.”

Belting out a chuckle, she shakes her head. “It’s settled, then. This place will no longer be the home of the Magnolia Lane murders. It’ll be Safe Haven Facility.”

24

Céleste

I Put A Spell On You by Nina Simone croons from the kitchen speaker, as I read through the recipe I’ve bookmarked. The shirt I borrowed from Thierry, while I wash a load of laundry, already carries the orangey-red stain of smoked paprika and cayenne. “One tablespoon of wholegrain mustard?” I mutter, setting my finger to the page in the book. “What the hell is wholegrain mustard?”

In an effort to impress my cold and detached host, I decided to try my hand at Valir garlic shrimp on angel hair. Unfortunately, I’ve made a not-so-impressive mess of his kitchen—which I fully intend to clean before he gets home.

A variety of seasonings cover the counter, in my somewhat poor attempt to replicate a simple store-bought seasoning. How the hell a man lives in Valir country and doesn’t have his own readymade seasoning is mind-boggling.

Beside the array of seasonings, a food processor sits covered in bits of chopped onion, and next to that, about a pound of shrimp I’ve taken the time to peel and devein, their casings in a heap like a mass skin collection. Brown sugar scattered over the counter and floor marks my crappy pouring skills, along with the soy sauce