Page 17 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

She debated staying in the kitchen and trying some other question on the housekeeper.

She had the feeling she’d be wasting her time—since both of them were now on edge.

So, she repeated her thanks, left the room, and headed for the stairs.

Before she got there, she changed her mind and went back to the library.

Switching on the lights, she scanned the shelves, amazed all over again by the wide variety of subjects—especially now that she knew that Andre’s higher education came from this library.

He ran an estate. Managed his investments. Did his own gardening, landscaping and home remodeling.

Unconsciously, she found herself comparing him to her husband. Trevor had been wound up with his job. Most of their conversation had been about their assignments.

Andre seemed to be the complete opposite. He was wound up with what DIY shows might call “nesting.” A lot of women would consider him an excellent catch. Except that there was something strange about him. He had secrets. And he kept disappearing at inopportune times.

Why? Was he a drunk or a drug addict? Was that where he went at night—to drink himself into a stupor or drown his pain in chemical remedies? Or was he mentally ill?

Suddenly she remembered a conversation she’d once had with the mother of a friend who worked in a nursing home.

There were some old people she’d called—what was it?

” Morgan thought for a minute. “Sundowners.” That was the term for the residents who seemed okay during the day.

But as soon as the sun went down, they wigged out.

She didn’t know why that was true. Could it apply to someone Andre’s age?

She clenched and unclenched her fists, hating the way her thoughts were branching off into strange speculation.

If Andre had only been honest with her, she could stop making up answers to the questions spinning around in her head.

He’d gotten her to trust him enough to come down here.

Now she was wondering if she should have been more cautious.

She was angry by the time she reached the top of the stairs.

The thought crossed her mind that maybe she should stroll down the hall and start opening doors.

She could find his room and wait for him to come back.

But that would be a clear invasion of his privacy.

And she wasn’t going to do that—until she had exhausted other means of getting the information she needed to make sensible value judgments about him.

Instead, she walked slowly to her own room, stepped inside, and closed the door. Without turning on the light, she crossed the floor and looked out the window, her gaze searching the area under the trees where the voodoo priestess had put on her show the night before.

As far as Morgan could see, no one was there, and she breathed out a little sigh.

Then a flash of movement caught her eye.

Something stirred the shadows—fifty yards from where the woman had been standing the night before.

She couldn’t tell what, but it didn’t look like a man.

Or if it was a man, he was on his hands and knees.

She leaned toward the window, trying to get a better look, but the darkness under the trees frustrated her efforts to figure out what she was seeing. The thing moved closer. She saw a large elongated head, pointed ears, a low, lithe body covered with orange fur and black spots.

As the animal moved along the edge of the open area, its image solidified into a shape she had seen before, and a strangled sound rose in her throat.

It was a jaguar. The same one she had seen on the road—or his cousin.

There it had been out in the wild. Now it was right here—at Belle Vista.

The closed window and fifty yards separated her from the animal. But its hearing must have been excellent. It raised its head, the yellow eyes instantly finding and pinning her. Her breath caught in her throat as the animal stared at her, and she stared back.

The mottled tail lashed back and forth, the way a house cat would signal its anger. But this was no little tabby. This was a wild animal with claws and teeth that could rip a man’s skin to shreds.

As the cat stared directly at her, goose bumps rose on her skin. For heartbeats, she and the animal stood facing each other as though there were some kind of supernatural connection between them. The jaguar took a step back and another.

She had been frightened. Now she had to stifle the need to open the window and tell him to wait.

It was a strange impulse. A dangerous impulse. Yet she felt a deep sense of loss as the cat disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone at the window.

She stood at the window for several minutes. In the darkness, the jaguar howled—a long lonely sound that pierced her like a sharp blade.

Quickly she reached up and pulled the curtains closed. He couldn’t see her now. And neither could the voodoo priestess.

With deliberate steps, she crossed to the night table and turned on the light. The warm glow was comforting.

Now that she was alone, she couldn’t help wondering if the jaguar had been real—or if she had made him up.

She didn’t know, but suddenly she felt cold all over. In the bathroom, she turned on the shower, waited until the water heated, then stepped under the hot spray, letting it pound against her back and shoulder, soothing her jangled nerves.

After drying off, she went back to bed.

To her relief, she fell asleep quickly. When she woke in the morning, nothing had disturbed her sleep.

Full of renewed energy, she changed into jeans and a tee shirt and went downstairs. When she walked into the kitchen, Janet looked up. “Andre asked me to tell you he won’t be available today.”

Suddenly deflated, Morgan demanded, “Where is he?”

“He left early to go get some supplies.”

“In St. Germaine?”

“No. He needed some things he could only get in New Orleans.”

“He could have asked if I wanted to go with him,” she snapped.

“He wanted to get an early start. And you were still sleeping.”

Morgan struggled not to take out her frustration on Janet. Instead she ate a quick breakfast, then cleared her throat. “Can I borrow a knife?”

“For what?”

“I feel funny poking around in the swamp without any protection.”

“You shouldn’t be poking around in the bayou at all!”

“It’s part of my job,” she murmured.

Janet sighed and gestured toward one of the kitchen drawers.

Opening it, Morgan took a medium-sized knife, then exited the kitchen, holding the weapon down beside her leg as she stepped outside and descended the steps, heading for the trees, thinking that Janet was probably watching her.

But she refused to look around to find out for sure.

She had seen the cat under an oak tree. When she reached it, she stopped and couldn’t hold back a curse. Someone had raked the dirt, obliterating any chance of finding the prints.

Her jaw set in a determined line, she began walking in a circle, her eyes fixed on the ground, widening the circle every time she came back to a spot opposite the lawn where she’d started. It took her ten repetitions, but she finally found the tracks—leading away into a stand of small pines.

So, the cat hadn’t been her imagination!

Well, that was something, anyway. She was already pretty far into the swampy area.

She glanced over her shoulder, thinking she should go back to the house.

Instead, she deliberately went in the opposite direction—toward the bayou.

Before she reached the island, she used the knife to cut off a sapling, then stripped off the small branches.

If the water wasn’t too deep, she could use the pole to steady herself as she walked across the log.

With the pole in one hand, she walked along the bank—searching for the island. It materialized out of the shadows several minutes later, looking dark and menacing. But she was pretty sure she was projecting her mood onto the place. It was just a patch of ground—like any other.

Before she could change her mind, she stepped up on the log and probed at the mud. As she had hoped, the water was only a couple of feet deep.

Feeling more confident, she moved the pole, taking each step slowly and carefully.

She was a quarter of the way across the log when the pole sank into thick muck, throwing her off balance. Her feet slipped on the treacherous surface, and she dropped the stick, pinwheeling her arms to keep from falling into the water.

As she went down, she heard the alligator make a sudden splash in the water. From the corner of her eye, she saw it glide toward her. Faster than she could blink her eyes, it shot out of the water, jaws open, aiming at her dangling foot.