Anger swelled inside her, an anger bred in frustration and fear. "I'm doing everything I know to remember that night. I relive that horrible scene over and over again in my head, hoping that the next time I'll see it all. And if you think I'm holding back, then you can go to h.e.l.l." She stalked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She threw herself into a kitchen chair, angry with herself for not being able to remember, more angry with Billy for believing she wasn't trying hard enough.

Leaning back and staring at the whispering ceiling fan, she wondered if it was possible he was right. Was there a tiny part of her that didn't want to remember? Didn't want to shatter the last of her childish dreams where her family was concerned?

"Truce?" Billy leaned against the doorframe between the bedroom and the kitchen.

She nodded wearily. "Truce," she agreed.

"The worst thing we can do is bicker." Billy sat down across from her and reached for her hand. "I need you, Shelby. I know no other lawyer who could represent me as well as you."

She pulled her hand away, vaguely irritated by his words. She remembered Olivia intimating that Billy's desire for her was based on his need of her legal expertise. Shelby wanted him to need her, but not for her lawyering skills, and not for her memories that might solve a crime. She wanted him to need her as a woman, but she knew that was ridiculous. Billy Royce didn't really need anyone.

"I think we should just call it a day," she said, closing up the files on the table and placing them all in a neat stack.

"We need to take that package to Bob," Billy said.

"Why? What can he do with it? I'm sure whoever sent it was smart enough not to leave fingerprints."

"True, but that pale blue stationery came from somewhere."

Shelby shook her head. "I'm sure that stationery is probably sold in every discount store in the state. If you don't mind, just throw it all away. I'd rather forget about it."

"I don't want you to forget about it." Billy moved closer to where she sat. "Shelby, that was meant as a threat and you have to be on guard. I also don't want you walking alone through the swamp to come here anymore. From now on, you call me and I'll meet you at the edge of your property."

"Surely you're overreacting," she scoffed.

Billy reached out and flipped one of the murder photos in front of her. "Overreacting? Take a good look, Shelby. This woman would have been thirty years old this year, but she died five years ago, stabbed in the swamp where n.o.body could hear her cries. Those bouquets, along with the note, were warnings that we're getting too close. No, I'm not overreacting, I just don't want you to become the swamp serpent's next victim."

"I'm just so confused," she finally said, averting her gaze from the photo in front of her. "I have to admit, no matter how the evidence points to the killer being somebody in my family, there's a part of me that finds that so difficult to believe. And the worst part of all is not knowing who...my father? My brother? Roger? There has to be some way to discover the truth besides depending on my faulty memories."

Billy slid into the chair next to hers. "The only way I know to find out who's guilty is to eliminate those who aren't." He put the crime photo away and pulled out a sheet of paper. "While you were sleeping, I made a list of the murders and the dates they are believed to have happened. If your family has alibis for some of these dates, then they can't be the swamp serpent."

Shelby took the paper from him and studied it. Fifteen dates spanning twelve years-sixteen dates if the night Fayrene and Tyler were killed was added into the equation. It seemed an impossible task, trying to discover alibis for dates over that length of time. "I don't even remember what I did yesterday. How am I supposed to find out what people did on a particular night twelve years ago?"

Billy smiled at her, an obvious attempt to alleviate some of the tension that still existed between them. "I never promised you a rose garden."

She laughed, despite her edge of despair. "You've always been the kind of man who never makes promises."

He frowned, his eyes dark with the intensity that made many believe he was a dangerous man. "I promise you this. I won't rest until we find the person responsible for all the deaths in the swamp. I won't rest until I see justice done."

She heard the pa.s.sion ringing in his voice, knew the depths of his abhorrence for the person responsible for the crimes. How could he not help but feel some sort of spillover revulsion for her if the killer turned out to be her father, or her brother?

"I'm done for today." She stood, grabbed her bnefcase from the floor and opened it on the table. Together they placed the files inside, then she closed it and snapped it locked. "I can't think anymore."

"I hear there's a big party this evening at the Whalens'. You going?" Billy asked a few minutes later as he drove her home.

"I was invited, and I think the rest of the family is going, but I think I'll just stay home, relax and try to get a good night's sleep."

"I hope you have a lock on your bedroom door."

Shelby didn't answer, but rather wrapped her arms around herself, finding it chilling that she would have to lock a bedroom door in order to keep herself safe in her own home.

It wasn't until he pulled up in front of the house that Billy spoke again. "Shelby, I think we're getting so close the killer is getting frightened, and that makes things more dangerous. I have the feeling that somehow the situation is reaching a boiling point and there's going to be an explosion soon."

She nodded. The moment she'd stared at the withered, dry, blackened roses, she'd felt the sands of time slipping away from her, knew that before long something horrible would happen. She could only pray she'd remember what she'd seen in the swamp on that night so long ago before there was another victim.

"I'll be careful, Billy," she promised as she got out of the truck.

"Don't forget to call me before coming to my place. Under no circ.u.mstances should you be in that swamp alone."

"I won't forget." With a small wave, she watched his truck until it disappeared from sight, leaving only a layer of dust swirling in the air.

What a day. First she'd had to tell Bob about the disappearing files, then the horror of staring down into the gift box with the dead roses inside. And if that wasn't enough, Billy's unspoken accusation that she intentionally didn't want to remember the ident.i.ty of the murderer, haunted her.

Was he right? Despite her family's dysfunction, she loved them all, and the thought that one of them could do something so horrible filled her with a dreadful, all-consuming sickness.

As she walked toward the house, she wondered if she was subconsciously protecting a murderer.

BY EIGHT O'CLOCK the house had grown silent. All the members of the Longsford family had left for the Whalens' party and the household help had been dismissed for the remainder of the night.

Shelby sat in the kitchen eating a snack of cheese and crackers, listening to the wind that had begun to wail an hour before, promising the approach of a storm and welcome relief from the heat.

All evening her mind had been filled with thoughts of the murders and the possibility of alibis. In her heart, each time she contemplated who the murderer might be, her father's image always came to mind. It brought with it an ache of betrayal, a fury of contempt and the knowledge that he, more than anyone else, seemed a likely suspect. Fathers weren't supposed to be killers, she thought with a childlike hurt. Fathers were supposed to love and protect, be role models.

As she put away the food and cleaned up her dishes, she thought again of alibis. If even one of the murders took place while her father was on one of his frequent trips out of town, then he would no longer be a suspect.

With this thought in mind, Shelby decided to snoop around in her father's office. Located at the back of the house, the room had been off-limits to everyone for as long as Shelby could remember.

For a moment she lingered, her hand on the k.n.o.b, aware that a childish taboo was about to be broken. Turning the k.n.o.b, she walked into her father's private sanctuary.

It smelled like him, of strong cologne and expensive bourbon. She flipped the switch on the wall, a desk lamp coming to life and illuminating the room. The walls were adorned with pictures, photos of Big John with political allies and enemies, images chronicling the life of a power h.o.a.rder.

Shelby was surprised to discover one wall dedicated to his family. Professional portraits of them together as a group, and individual snapshots of each of the children in various poses. She walked from picture to picture, oddly touched by the display in a room where he spent so much of his time alone.

She smiled at the picture of herself seated at the piano, her face expressing utter distaste. She'd taken piano lessons for only a month, and had hated each and every one. Another photo showed her and Michael together, him playfully making rabbit ears behind her head.

"Michael." She breathed his name softly, remembering all the times he'd championed her against Olivia's tormenting ways, all the times he'd placed himself in the position to receive the punishment for something she had done.

She just couldn't find it in her heart to think he might have anything to do with the swamp serpent murders. Michael was a man of the cloth, had taken solemn vows, and there was no way she could imagine him using a knife rather than a rosary.

No, she couldn't believe Michael had anything to do with any of this. She didn't want to believe anyone she loved could have anything to do with any of this.

She turned her attention to the desk drawers, feeling like a thief as she began to search for records, daily planners, anything that might tell her where her father was on the nights of the most recent murders.

As she searched the desk, she was aware of the ominous rumbles of thunder and the brilliant lightning flashes that pierced the heavy draperies at the windows. Within minutes rain pelted the side of the house.

It took her nearly an hour to go through the contents of the desk, then she turned her attention to the ma.s.sive file cabinets against one wall. "Bingo," she whispered as she spied a large folder containing internal revenue forms for the past twenty years.

Her father was nothing if not frugal and many of the trips he took were tax deductible. She knew if she dug around enough she'd find material supporting every claim he took, including dates of his travel.

It took her another hour to finally find what she was looking for, and eagerly she wrote out the dates, year by year for the past twelve. She had placed everything back where she had found it and had just turned off the light when she heard a noise. Different than a rumble of thunder, more intrusive than the gentle rain, it sent an ominous shiver walking up her spine.

She froze. Heart pounding frantically. Seconds pa.s.sed as all kinds of scenarios rocketed through her head. What better way to silence her permanently than to sneak away from a neighbor's party and kill her?

The Whalens' house was less than a five-minute drive away. Easy for a guest to disappear for twenty or so minutes. How easy for the killer, to dispose of her, race back to the party, then be with the family when they discovered her dead body.

She took a step out of the office, wishing she'd thought to turn on a light in the downstairs hallway. A flash of lightning showed the hallway empty. Taking another step, she listened. Nothing. Maybe it had simply been her imagination.

She started for the stairs that led to her bedroom. The noise came again, louder this time. Stumbling, she fell to one knee, her heart nearly bursting out of her chest. The back door. The noise came from the back door. The jiggle of the doork.n.o.b, the brush of a large body against the wood. Somebody was trying to get in.

Another noise penetrated her consciousness. The rattle of paper. She looked down and realized the sheet of paper crackled as her hand trembled uncontrollably.

If she had any courage at all, she'd grab a knife from the kitchen drawer and confront whomever was outside. But Shelby wasn't a fool. She'd seen those horror movies, and always scoffed at the heroine's stupidity in confronting the horror head-on.

Shelby preferred crawling into a hole rather than direct confrontation with a killer. Unfortunately, a hole wasn't available. She jumped as someone banged on the door, all pretense of trying to be quiet gone.

"Shelby?" a familiar voice called.

The voice broke the inertia that had gripped her and she ran to the door. She unlocked it and flung it open to reveal Billy, his hair and clothing wet from the storm. "Billy, you scared me half to death," she exclaimed as he swept by her and into the kitchen. "What are you doing here?" She closed the door and turned to face him.

He grinned sheepishly. "I'm not sure. I got worried, started thinking all crazy thoughts."

Shelby smiled. "I know, the same thoughts crossed my mind."

"What time do you expect your family home?" he asked.

"I don't know, probably by midnight. Why?"

"Because I intend to stay here with you until they get home."

"Billy, that's not necessary. Besides, you're all wet. You need to get out of those clothes."

His wicked grin flooded her with heat. "That's exactly what I had in mind."

Chapter Seventeen.

Billy. He was her first thought when she awakened the next morning. Her bed still held his scent, the pillow next to her still retained the imprint of his head. He'd sneaked out of her window the night before as her parents' car had pulled up the lane toward the house. And between the time he'd arrived and the time he had left, there had been magic.

She stirred languidly, knowing she needed to get up, but reluctant to leave the coc.o.o.n of Billy that surrounded her. For a couple of splendid hours there had been no swamp and town and there had been no killer. It had been just a man and a woman making love and whispering lover talk while a gentle rain pattered its rhythm on the roof.

She'd wanted it all to last forever, but knew that was the fanciful dream of a fool. Like the storm in the night, gone before dawn, there was no forever for her and Billy, no future at all. Always the faces of the swamp victims would be between them, and the knowledge that somebody in her family was responsible for the deaths.

Thinking of the swamp serpent, she remembered the piece of paper she'd written on the night before, a list of her father's travel dates for the past twelve years. Billy's unexpected appearance had made her forget about it, but now it preyed on her mind, making further sleep impossible.

Getting out of bed, she grabbed her robe and pulled it on then hurried over to the desk where the paper awaited her attention. She rummaged through her briefcase and pulled out the sheet of paper where Billy had written the dates of the murders. Laying the two pieces of paper side by side, she began to compare the dates.

It didn't take long to see that on the dates of all the murders Big John had been at the mansion, not out somewhere on the road. There was nothing in the dates to cast doubt on his guilt. She stared at the papers, her heart echoing the dull thud of dreadful certainty.

As much as she wanted to deny it, she knew there was more than a strong possibility that her father was the swamp serpent. She needed to talk to somebody, somebody other than Billy. She needed to talk to somebody who loved their father, someone who had grown up in the house. Michael. She wanted to talk to Michael.

It didn't take her long to shower and dress, and soon after she was on the road driving toward Michael's rectory. No remnant of the storm the night before remained. The sun was brilliant, the sky unmarred by clouds, making her feel as if she'd dreamed the thunder, the lightning...Billy.

Michael's church wasn't far from the mansion. Like the Longsford house, the church was bordered on the back by the swamp. It was a simple structure, complete with an oldfashioned bell tower. A short distance from the church was a well-kept little cottage, and it was here she a.s.sumed she would find her brother, probably preparing for the morning services.

She knocked on the door, then looked at her watch. It was just after eight. She knew the morning ma.s.s didn't start until ten, so hopefully Michael would have time to talk to her.

He opened the door and his face immediately lit with a warm smile. "Shelby, what a surprise. Come on in, I was just about to sit down for breakfast."

"I don't want to intrude," she said hesitantly.

"Intrude?" He took her by the arm and ushered her in. "You could never intrude. Have you had breakfast?" he asked as he led her into a small but cheerful kitchen.

"No, but I'm not hungry, although I wouldn't turn down a cup of coffee."

He grinned. "You'll probably turn down a second cup once you get a taste of my coffee. Sit down." He gestured her into a chair at the bright yellow enameled table. "So, to what do I owe this honor?" he asked as he poured them each a cup of coffee.

Shelby hesitated, unsure where to begin, what she wanted to say, what she needed to hear from him. She twisted the mug between her hands, wishing there was an easy way to tell him her suspicions.

"Shelby? What's wrong?" Michael's hand reached out and touched her arm, his eyes gazing at her warmly. "I can tell you're troubled. What can I do to help?"

She smiled, as always touched by his support, his concern. "There's nothing you can do to help, except listen. I need to tell somebody about some things I've been thinking. I need some objectivity."

Michael leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee. "Objectivity about what?" he asked as he placed the cup back down.

"Big John."

Michael winced, a rueful smile curving his lips. "Ah, you don't make things easy, do you?"

"I also need to know that whatever I say will be kept in strictest confidence," she added.

"Shelby, I'm accustomed to hearing confessions. I keep confidences as part of my job."

She nodded, then took a moment to collect her thoughts, get them in order to tell Michael. It took her only minutes to tell him about Tyler and his connection to the swamp murders. She explained about the erased computer files, Big John's affair with Marguerite Boujoulais and finally the flowers she'd found in her bed and those that had been delivered to her. As she spoke, Michael's expression remained impa.s.sive, only his blue eyes flashing emotions too deep, too dark to release.

"I checked Big John's travel for the past twelve years and not one murder took place while he was out of town. Michael, I know it sounds crazy, but I think maybe he's the swamp serpent killer."

Michael sighed, leaned back in his chair and touched the collar around his neck as if for comfort. "G.o.d forgive me, but I've entertained the same thought."

"You have?" She looked at him in surprise. "But why?"

"I'm not sure, nothing specific, just a gut feeling that won't go away. Big John was always so vehement in his distaste of the swamp district. He fought long and hard to keep the community center from being built, a fight he lost." Michael smiled wryly. "Of course, now he embraces the center, aware that being a.s.sociated with it can't hurt his political image. It struck me after the last murder that Big John has hatred as his motive, opportunity in that the mansion is close to the murder sites, and I've seen him walking in and out of the swamp in the evenings many times."

"Have you told any of this to Bob?"