Sins of the Storm by Jenna Mills Page A

“Know what?”
    His deputy strolled over and clicked open the word processing program, pulled up a file. “I’m just glad she’s here with you, Sheriff.”
    Four words appeared against the stark white of the screen—black, bold, all caps.
    “Cuz if Billy Hebert is on Marcel Lambert’s payroll…”
    Everything inside of Jack went cold. Russ still talked. Jack knew that. Beauregard nudged at his hand—and the cicadas screamed. But the low roar of his blood drumming against his ears drowned out everything…except those four simple words.
    One night. One bullet. One gunshot. But with it more than just one man fell. More than just one man died. Families collapsed, and childhoods ended. Innocence shattered, and a dark dance of lies and betrayal began.
    Jack stared at the computer screen, didn’t trust himself to move. Russ stood a few feet across the porch, pretending to roughhouse with Beauregard. But Jack knew his deputy watched. He could feel the burn of his gaze, the questions. The…curiosity.
    It was all there, on the computer, in file after file. Her secrets, her thoughts and memories and plans. Her agenda.
    The word, the reality, settled like a rock in his gut.
    He’d known she had secrets. He’d seen them crowding her eyes. He’d known there was something she wasn’t telling him. She’d been too driven. Too…deliberate.
    But God Christ have mercy, he’d never imagined—
    God Christ have mercy, Camille hadn’t come home because she was curious about her father’s safe-deposit box, or to testify against Marcel Lambert.
    She’d come home to crucify him.
    As Cameron Monroe.
    Jack looked up toward the night, refused to let himself look toward the house, where she slept inside, so goddamned innocently. She. Camille—Cameron Monroe. The author preparing to serve up every prurient detail, every crumb about her own father’s death for public consumption.
    That’s why she was here. That’s why she’d come home. That’s why she’d been at Whispering Oaks. That’s why she’d sugared up to locals all afternoon, in bar after bar, after bar.
    That’s why she’d sidestepped his questions.
    One night. One bullet. One gunshot.
    Troy Fontenot was the victim’s name. He was a husband and a father, a scholar. A dreamer. He was always home from work by six, washed the dishes after dinner, helped his son with his homework and read stories to his little girl. But after the house fell quiet Troy would retreat to his study, and there he would let his own passion take over.
    Jack’s cell phone started to ring.
    It was that passion that drove him, controlled him…that passion that killed him.
    The cicadas fell quiet.
    That passion that killed them all—the families and the childhoods, that—
    Jack looked up and reached for his phone, brought it to his face. “Savoie.”
    “Jacques.”
    Cold punched in from all directions. The voice was tired and frail and…scared, and before he even asked the question, he knew. “Gran? What’s wrong?”
    “I—I think someone’s trying to get in,” she said, but Jack was already running.
     
    —killed the innocence.
     
    The slam of a door broke her sleep. The rush of heavy footfalls jump-started her heart. And then his hands were on her body, curving around her, pulling her from beneath the covers. “Jacques—”
    “Come on,” he said, and before she could so much as breathe, she was on her feet and he was practically dragging her toward the door.
    She blinked against the glare of light and tried to orient herself, staggered and slammed into him…felt the gun. “My God…” she tried, but her throat closed up on her, and panic came in a tight cold fist. She caught sight of him then, the tight lines of his face and the hot burn in his eyes, and deep in her bones, she knew. “W-what’s going on?”
    “There’s no time—”
    “Sheriff,” came a second voice, “I can stay with her if you like—”
    “I’m not leaving her here.”
    Again.
    He didn’t say