Drake wasn’t so certain. Not with the sure belief the woman was a serial killer and she cried like a child at the drop of a hat. More tears flooded her large eyes and she covered her face, rocking back and forth.

“I’ll never have a man. My mother says I don’t have what it takes to hold a man . . .”

“Oh for God’s sake, Charisse,” Drake burst out, driven beyond endurance. “How old are you anyway? Has it ever occurred to you that you’re a grown-up and maybe, just maybe, your mother is full of shit?”

Saria gasped. Charisse startled, staring at him with wide, tear-drenched eyes.

“Drake,” Saria cautioned.

“Someone has to tell the truth here, Saria. Charisse, everyone tells me you’re a brilliant woman,” Drake was more exasperated than ever. “You know you are as well, yet you let everyone treat you as if you’re a small child that’s not quite bright. So your mother says you’re not beautiful enough to hold a man like Mahieu Boudreaux. Why in the hell would you ever believe her? Mahieu is a man of principle. Do you think he’s after you for your money?”

Two spots of color flamed into Charisse’s pale face. “Every man I’ve ever gone out with has dumped me for my mother. She sends them on their way and crows about it for months.”

He heard Saria inhale sharply and he glanced at her. She pressed a hand to her stomach as if sick and he felt an answering lurch in his gut. “Are you telling me your mother really seduced your boyfriends?”

Charisse stiffened. Shame crept into her expression. She nodded. “Even in high school. They always slept with her. I was never pretty enough, or smart enough . . .”

“That’s sick, Charisse. And abusive. If you’re so damned bright, how the hell did you not figure that out? Your mother has something wrong with her and she took it out on you. Did you really think Mahieu would sleep with her?”

“Mon dieu, cher, tell me you didn’t accuse Mahieu of sleeping with your mother,” Saria pleaded. “Please tell me you didn’t do that.”

A whisper of unease slipped into Drake’s mind and lodged there.

“I did though,” Charisse sobbed. “I did and he left. You should have seen the look on his face. He’ll never talk to me again. I tried callin’ him over and over. I texted him. He didn’t answer. And I went by your house before dawn and Remy said Mahieu never came home.” Her sobs went up another notch, reaching a crescendo. “My mother wasn’t home either last night.”

Drake stiffened, his mind racing, fingers of fear creeping down his spine. “I need you to calm down for me, Charisse. Stop crying. You won’t be of any help if you keep crying.” That terrible thought continued to drift unchecked through his mind. Impossible. Totally impossible. Yet that little tendril of suspicion refused to go away. “Is there a phone in this cabin, Saria?”

“Yes. Cell phones don’t work here.”

“Call Remy and tell him to get over here now,” Drake said. “Tell him to send the team to Fenton’s Marsh. I want them to spread out and look for any signs that someone has been there. And tell him to bring the photos you took out there.”

Saria’s eyes met his. “Mahieu’s all right?” She couldn’t hide the question in her voice, or the sudden fear streaking across her transparent face, nor did she ask why he wanted the photographs of dead bodies.

Charisse gulped, her eyes widening until they looked like two drenched pansies pressed into her face. “Of course he’s all right. Why wouldn’t he be all right?” He saw her intelligence then, the quick mind fitting pieces of a puzzle together. “What’s goin’ on? Tell me right now if it has somethin’ to do with Mahieu.”

The crybaby was gone. In her place was a thinking, sharp woman. She bruI did away the tears and looked him right in the eye. “Tell me.”

“What do you know about opium?” Drake asked, his voice quiet.

Saria had leapt to her feet, but she paused, turning back toward them. Charisse blinked. Frowned. Her gaze never left Drake’s. She leaned toward him. “Quite a lot, actually. I study plants, but what would that have to do with Mahieu?”

Her voice was quite steady. Almost a challenge. As if he dared accuse Mahieu of anything and she might leap forward and claw out his eyes.

“Where are the soaps made for your company?”

Charisse frowned. “In New Orleans. We have a factory right there.”

“Do you ever go there?”

“No. I have nothing to do with production. I work in my own laboratory developin’ scents. What does this have to do with Mahieu—or opium?”

“Do you, personally, grow your plants?”

“In the greenhouse only. I experiment with developin’ different hybrids for scents there.”

“And the gardens in the swamp?”

“We have workers for that.”

“Who? Specifically?”

Charisse frowned. “I don’t know. We have a foreman. I don’t talk to him myself. Armande or my mother handles that. I have enough to do in the laboratory. In any case, I never go out in the swamp. Sometimes I meet Saria at the picnic area and . . .” Her gaze darted to Saria. “And Evangeline meets me there.”

“But never men.”

“In the swamp?” Charisse’s horror was genuine. She looked down at her clothes and gave a delicate shudder. “Never.”