hour or so you might come looking for me.”
He laughed and slapped his door, making enough noise to bring a large man to the entrance of the shack, even though they were fifty yards away. Silhouetted by the light behind him, he stood with the door open, legs apart, hands on hips—as if he were king of the whole swamp and was none too happy at the intrusion.
Not only had Fornier killed a man, he’d lost his wife and daughter. And he’d served time in prison. Was he still sane?
Jasmine cleared her throat. “Or…you don’t suppose you could spare another couple of minutes to wait for me?”
Throwing back his head, the Cajun laughed again. “He won’t hurt you, podnah. I’d trust my own daughda wit’ him.”
“Right. You wouldn’t leave me if it wasn’t safe.”
“’Course not. He a good man.”
A good man… He’d suffered a great deal, and he’d avenged his daughter’s death. That didn’t prove he was a good man. But it’d been her idea to come out here, and she decided she might have better luck getting Fornier to open up if they didn’t have an audience. What they’d both suffered wasn’t easy to talk about.
After waiting for her to pass, the old man turned around. She watched his taillights disappear in her rearview mirror before concentrating all her attention on that broad figure in the doorway.
Quit being a baby. It was only eight o’clock. She might as well get what she’d come for.
45
Fornier didn’t move toward her even after she parked and got out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the lintel, watching her skeptically. At least she thought he was watching skeptically. It was difficult to be sure. She could only make out his general characteristics. Tall, maybe six-two or six-three—a full ten inches taller than she was—he had a lean, muscular build and the hyperfocus of an animal who stalks its prey. His hair was on the long side, making him look a bit careless or perhaps reckless, but the rest of him seemed very…together. Right down to his clothes.
Once she reached him, she could tell his faded jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were clean and smelled of woodsmoke. She could also tell she’d interrupted him while he was relaxing, because he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“I suppose you have a reason for being here.” His lazy Southern drawl was almost as deceptive as his stance was casual.
“Ya-Ya Collins sent me.” She clasped her hands together to get control of her nerves. “From Mamou,” she added.
“I know where Ya-Ya lives.” His voice was as rough as tree bark, but now that Jasmine was close enough to see him better, she could tell that those pictures in the newspaper didn’t do him justice. He was much more attractive in person. “How’d you get past her?” he asked.
“I told her the truth about why I want to speak with you.” With the shadows on his face, she couldn’t be sure but she thought his eyes wandered over her, sizing her up, drawing Lord knows what kinds of conclusions.
“Which is?”
“I’m not a reporter or a journalist.”
He didn’t seem particularly relieved. “The process of elimination could take a while. Maybe we should start with what you are.” She ignored the sarcasm. “You’re as friendly as I expected.”
“I don’t remember inviting you here.”
“I came because I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “If it has anything to do with the last decade, I have nothing to say. I’ve put the past behind me.” Obviously, he’d done no such thing, or he wouldn’t be living like a hermit.
“It’s about the man who killed your daughter.”
“Of course it is.” With a grimace, he rubbed his neck. “You should’ve left your engine running,” he said at length, then he shoved away from the lintel as if he planned to go back inside and leave her right where she was. He probably would have, if she hadn’t stopped the door.
His gaze traveled from her hand
He laughed and slapped his door, making enough noise to bring a large man to the entrance of the shack, even though they were fifty yards away. Silhouetted by the light behind him, he stood with the door open, legs apart, hands on hips—as if he were king of the whole swamp and was none too happy at the intrusion.
Not only had Fornier killed a man, he’d lost his wife and daughter. And he’d served time in prison. Was he still sane?
Jasmine cleared her throat. “Or…you don’t suppose you could spare another couple of minutes to wait for me?”
Throwing back his head, the Cajun laughed again. “He won’t hurt you, podnah. I’d trust my own daughda wit’ him.”
“Right. You wouldn’t leave me if it wasn’t safe.”
“’Course not. He a good man.”
A good man… He’d suffered a great deal, and he’d avenged his daughter’s death. That didn’t prove he was a good man. But it’d been her idea to come out here, and she decided she might have better luck getting Fornier to open up if they didn’t have an audience. What they’d both suffered wasn’t easy to talk about.
After waiting for her to pass, the old man turned around. She watched his taillights disappear in her rearview mirror before concentrating all her attention on that broad figure in the doorway.
Quit being a baby. It was only eight o’clock. She might as well get what she’d come for.
45
Fornier didn’t move toward her even after she parked and got out. He crossed his arms and leaned against the lintel, watching her skeptically. At least she thought he was watching skeptically. It was difficult to be sure. She could only make out his general characteristics. Tall, maybe six-two or six-three—a full ten inches taller than she was—he had a lean, muscular build and the hyperfocus of an animal who stalks its prey. His hair was on the long side, making him look a bit careless or perhaps reckless, but the rest of him seemed very…together. Right down to his clothes.
Once she reached him, she could tell his faded jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were clean and smelled of woodsmoke. She could also tell she’d interrupted him while he was relaxing, because he wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“I suppose you have a reason for being here.” His lazy Southern drawl was almost as deceptive as his stance was casual.
“Ya-Ya Collins sent me.” She clasped her hands together to get control of her nerves. “From Mamou,” she added.
“I know where Ya-Ya lives.” His voice was as rough as tree bark, but now that Jasmine was close enough to see him better, she could tell that those pictures in the newspaper didn’t do him justice. He was much more attractive in person. “How’d you get past her?” he asked.
“I told her the truth about why I want to speak with you.” With the shadows on his face, she couldn’t be sure but she thought his eyes wandered over her, sizing her up, drawing Lord knows what kinds of conclusions.
“Which is?”
“I’m not a reporter or a journalist.”
He didn’t seem particularly relieved. “The process of elimination could take a while. Maybe we should start with what you are.” She ignored the sarcasm. “You’re as friendly as I expected.”
“I don’t remember inviting you here.”
“I came because I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “If it has anything to do with the last decade, I have nothing to say. I’ve put the past behind me.” Obviously, he’d done no such thing, or he wouldn’t be living like a hermit.
“It’s about the man who killed your daughter.”
“Of course it is.” With a grimace, he rubbed his neck. “You should’ve left your engine running,” he said at length, then he shoved away from the lintel as if he planned to go back inside and leave her right where she was. He probably would have, if she hadn’t stopped the door.
His gaze traveled from her hand
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