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  She felt almost incandescent with joy, so far her period was four days late. She was stunned by the possibility that she might have gotten pregnant so fast, but then Jack had certainly worked at his appointed duty. She had kept waiting for her period to start, but this morning hope had suddenly overwhelmed common sense and she was almost certain. When they left her mother’s, they were going to buy a pregnancy test kit. Tomorrow morning, they would know for sure.

  She couldn’t decide which she wanted most, a son or a daughter. She thought of Jack throwing a football with a tough little guy, and her heart melted. Then she imagined a little girl, all dimples and ringlets, cradled in her daddy’s muscular arms, and she shivered with delight. No matter which she had, though, she’d ask Todd to help her decorate the nursery, because he had such wonderful taste in interior decorating. And she wanted to ask him if he would be the baby’s godfather, though she’d have to talk that over with Jack first because he might have another friend in mind.

  Todd commented on the lace tablecloth, asking her mother if she knew how old it was. Daisy tilted her head, studying him. He was as neatly dressed as always, today wearing a white silk shirt and pleated forest green trousers with a narrow black belt cinched around his waist.

  Under the table, Jack’s leg nudged hers, as if he couldn’t bear not touching her any longer. She ignored him, her gaze locked on Todd.

  Jack realized whom she was watching, and he suddenly shifted restlessly. “Daisy—” he began, but he was too late. Her voice rang out, clear and crisp.

  “Todd, do you know what color puce is?”

  Caught off-guard, Todd turned to her with a startled look. “You’re making that up, right?” he blurted.

  Glenn Sykes had been out of the hospital for almost a month when he drove up to Temple Nolan’s house, though the former mayor no longer lived there. He was out on bail and supposedly living in Scottsboro until his trial, but Sykes hadn’t made any effort to find out where. For now, he was just concentrating on being alive and getting his strength back.

  He’d been in an odd mood since getting shot, though maybe it wasn’t so odd. Almost dying tended to change your outlook, at least temporarily. He still figured he’d handled things the best way possible for himself, even though it had gone bad there at the end, with Phillips showing up. He allowed himself a cold smile; he still enjoyed thinking about Russo’s well-placed shot.

  There was one other person who probably enjoyed thinking about that shot just as much as he did, and that was why he was here.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. He heard foot-steps; then Jennifer Nolan opened the door. She didn’t know him, though, so she didn’t unlatch the storm door. “Yes?”

  She was a beautiful woman, he thought, more than merely pretty. He’d heard she had stopped drinking; maybe she had, maybe she hadn’t, but today her eyes were clear, if full of shadows.

  “I’m Glenn Sykes,” he said.

  She stared at him through the screen, and he knew what she was thinking. He had been in her husband’s employ, privy to all the dirty secrets; he probably knew about Temple giving her to Phillips.

  “Go away,” she said, and started to shut the door.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said softly, and she froze, her hand still on the door.

  “What. . . what doesn’t matter?” Her voice was low and strained.

  “What Phillips did. It doesn’t matter. He didn’t touch you, just your body.”

  She whirled, her eyes full of rage. “Yes, he did touch me! He killed part of me, so don’t come here telling me what he did or didn’t do.”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “Are you going to let him win?”

  “He didn’t win. I did. I’m here, and what’s left of him will go to prison, where I’m sure he’ll be very popular.”

  “Are you going to let him win?” Sykes repeated, his cool gaze locked on hers, and she hesitated.

  The moment drew out, as if she was helpless to dose the door and bring an end to it. Her breath came fast and shallow. “Why are you here?” she whispered.

  “Because you need me,” he said, and Jennifer opened the door.

  POCKET STAR BOOKS PROUDLY PRESENTS

  KILL AND TELL

  LINDA HOWARD

  Now available in paperback

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  Pocket Star Books

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  Kill and Tell...

  Karen felt the heat as soon as she stepped from the jet into the extended accordion of the jetway. The air was heavy with humidity, and sweat popped out on her forehead as she lugged her carry-on bag up the slight slope. She had dressed in a short-sleeved summer suit that felt too cool while she was on the plane, but now she was sweltering. Her legs were baking inside her panty hose, and sweat trickled down her back.

  Detective Chastain had been right about the airlines; she had made one call, spoken to a sympathetic, calmly efficient reservations agent, and found herself scurrying in order to get packed and to the airport in time to catch the flight. She hadn’t had time to eat before getting on the plane, and her stomach had clenched in revolt at the thought of eating the turkey sandwich served during the flight. She disliked turkey anyway; there was no way she could eat it with her stomach tied in knots and her head throbbing with tension.

  The headache was still with her. It throbbed in time with every step she took as she followed the signs to the baggage claim area. She had never felt the way she felt now, not even when her mother died. Her grief then had been sharp, overwhelming. She didn’t know what she felt now. If it was grief, then it was a different variety. She felt numbed, distant, oddly fragile, as if she had crystallized inside and the least bump would shatter her.

  The weight of the bag pulled at her arm, making her shoulder ache. The air felt clammy even inside the terminal, as if the humidity seeped through the walls. She realized she hadn’t called ahead to reserve a room. She stood in front of the baggage carousel, watching it whirl around with everyone’s bags except hers, and wondered if she had the energy to move from the spot.

  Finally, the conveyor spit out her bag. Keeping a tight grip on her carry-on, she leaned over to grab the other bag as it trundled past. A portly, balding man standing beside her said, “I’ll get it for you,” and deftly swung the bag off the belt.

  “Thank you,” Karen said, her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice as he set the bag at her feet.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” Nodding his head, he turned back to watch for his own bags.

  She tried to remember the last time a stranger had been so courteous, but nothing came to mind. The small act of kindness almost broke through the numbness that encased her.

  Her taxi driver was a lean young black man wearing dreadlocks and an infectious smile. “Where you goin’ this fine day?” he asked in a musical voice as he got behind the wheel after stowing her bags in the trunk.

  Fine day? Ninety-eight degrees with a matching percentage of humidity was a fine day? Still, the sky was bright blue, unclouded, and even over the reek of exhaust in this island of concrete, she could catch the scent of vegetation, fresh and sweet.

  “I don’t have a room yet,” she explained. “I need to go to the Eighth District police department on Royal Street”

  “You don’t wanna be carryin’ your bags around in no police station,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s a bunch of hotels on Canal, just a few blocks from where you want to go. Why not check into one first, then walk on down to Royal? Or I can take you to a hotel right in the Quarter, but it might be hard to get a room there if you don’t have a reservation.”

  “I don’t,” she said. Maybe all taxi drivers gave advice to weary travelers; she didn’t know, not having traveled much. But he was right; she didn’t want to lug her bags around.

  “The bigger hotels, like the Sheraton or the Marriott, are more likely to have vacancies, but they’re gonna be more expensive.”

  Karen was so exhausted that she cared