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as well as beautiful. Some might have said that a three-year age difference wasn’t enough to make him give up the attraction—intellectual as well as physical—that sparked between them.
    But in his mind, it wouldn’t have been right; she was still a kid, still in high school. He was grown and out of the house, already in college.
    Not to mention that he couldn’t help thinking maybe her father had the right to hate him.
    Looking at her now, he realized she’d grown even more beautiful, even more elegant.
    â€œThe killer was caught and tried, and it was all over and done with quickly, Charlie,” he said.
    â€œReally? Quickly? It still haunts me,” she said. “I’d really like to go with you to talk to the police, now that it’s all happening again.”
    â€œDo me a favor,” he said after a moment. “For now, just do what you told your father you would and go home, okay? I’ll let you know if I learn anything after I’ve had a chance to talk to Randy.”
    â€œRandy?”
    â€œRandall Laurent, the detective heading up the case. He’s an old friend, so I’m hoping things will go smoothly between us.”
    â€œI can’t imagine they won’t. I only vaguely remember him from school. Like you, he was three years older—a huge difference back then—and I know you were both on the football team. He seemed like a decent man when I talked to him last night. He wanted all the facts, but he was very understanding about asking. I guess he knew I was pretty much in a state of shock.”
    â€œThat sounds like him,” Ethan agreed. He wished her eyes weren’t so blue. And that she wouldn’t look at him the way she was, as if he’d become a stranger.
    She walked past him, moving toward the path down to the road. They still hadn’t touched, but he could smell her perfume, something as light as air and yet inexplicably provocative.
    â€œCharlie?”
    She waved to him without turning around. “I’m going home. Call me when you’ve got something.”
    Ethan watched her go. She might be going home now, but he had a very strong feeling that she wasn’t going to stay there.
    With a soft groan he decided to locate Laurent and find out everything he knew about the victims and whatever they’d pieced together about the killer.
    Charlie just might be investigating on her own, relying on that special talent of hers.
    And that could prove very dangerous.
    * * *
    Charlie paced the old house her dad owned just on the outskirts of St. Francisville. It was a wonderful old place, built sometime right before the start of the Civil War. It wasn’t a plantation house and had never been a working farm. It had been built by a man who had worked the riverboats, which made it a perfect fit for her father, with his passion for history and his current position on a riverboat himself. It wasn’t a large place, but there had always been enough room for their family, with three bedrooms upstairs plus a living room, dining room, office and library/family room—and modern kitchen—downstairs. Each bedroom had a fireplace, as did the living room. It was furnished with a mishmash of antiques that somehow worked, and her dad knew the origin of each piece of furniture. Only the big-screen television and entertainment center were new.
    She loved her home....
    Loved to remember her mom working in the kitchen or the seasonal flower beds she was so proud of. The sense of loss remained, of course, but Charlie thought both she and her dad had adjusted well, loving the memories and embracing them, but also finding satisfaction, even joy, in the lives they led now.
    Right now, though, she didn’t want to be home. She didn’t want to care for her mother’s flowers, look through scrapbooks or even learn lines for her upcoming scenes. She didn’t want to read or catch a movie on Netflix, not when two people