Prologue
Twenty years earlier
Our Lady of Virtues Hospital
Near New Orleans, Louisiana
She felt his breath.
Warm.
Seductive.
Erotically evil.
A presence that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to lift, her skin to prickle, sweat to collect on her spine.
Her heart thumped. Barely able to move, standing in the darkness, she searched the shadowed corners of her room frantically. Through the open window, she heard the reverberating songs of the frogs in the nearby swamps, and farther still the rumble of a train on faraway tracks.
But here, now, he was with her.
Go away, she tried to say but held her tongue, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn’t notice her standing near the window. On the other side of the paned glass security lamps illuminated the grounds with pale bluish light and she realized belatedly that her body, shrouded only by a sheer nightgown, was silhouetted by the eerie bluish glow from those lamps.
Of course he could see her, find her in the darkness.
He always did.
Throat dry, she stepped backward, placing a hand on the window casing to steady herself. Maybe she had just imagined his presence. Maybe she hadn’t heard the door open after all. Maybe she’d jumped up from a drug-induced sleep too quickly. After all it wasn’t late, only eight in the evening.
Maybe she was safe in this room, her room on the third floor.
Maybe.
She was reaching for the bedside light when she heard the soft scrape of leather against hardwood.
Her throat closed on a silent scream.
Having adjusted to the half-light, her eyes took in the bed with its mussed sheets, evidence of her fitful rest. On the dressing table was the lamp and a bifold picture frame; one that held small portraits of her two daughters. Across the small room was a fireplace. She could see its decorative tile and cold grate and above the mantel a bare spot, faded now where a mirror had once hung.
So where was he? She glanced at the tall windows. Beyond, the October night was hot and sultry. In the panes she could see her wan reflection: petite, small-boned frame; sad hazel eyes; high cheekbones; lustrous black hair pulled away from her face. And behind her…was that a shadow creeping near?
Or her imagination?
That was the trouble. Sometimes he hid.
But he was always nearby. Always. She could feel him, hear his soft, determined footsteps in the hallway, smell his scent—a mixture of male musk and sweat—catch a glimpse of a quick, darting shadow as he passed.
There was no getting away from him. Ever. Not even in the dead of night. He received great satisfaction in surprising her, sneaking up on her while she was sitting at her desk, leaning down behind her when she was kneeling at her bedside. He was always ready to press his face against the back of her neck, to reach around her and touch her breasts, arousing her though she loathed him, pulling her tightly against him so that she could feel his erection against her back. She wasn’t safe when she was under the thin spray of the shower, nor while sleeping naked beneath the covers of her small bed.
How ironic that they had placed her here…for her own safety.
“Go away,” she whispered, her head pounding, her thoughts disjointed. “Leave me alone!”
She blinked and tried to focus.
Where was he?
Nervously she trained her eyes on the one hiding place, the closet. She licked her lips. The wooden door was ajar, just slightly, enough that anyone inside could peer through the crack. From the small sliver of darkness within the closet something seemed to glimmer. A reflection. Eyes?