Chapter 1 - The Girl in the Rain
Thomas Rousseau had spent twenty-six years learning how to look at a human being and see a problem instead of a person.
That was why, when eight-year-old Rosa Williams ran away from him through the rain, his first thought was not that she was cold.
It was that she was loose.
A loose end.
A liability.
The girl disappeared around the corner of Royal Street, bare feet slapping through oily water. Thomas remained beneath the bookstore awning, his black coat already damp at the shoulders.
He could call Jacques. Two men in a sedan would find her before she made it three blocks.
Or he could do nothing.
New Orleans knew how to swallow people.
Then a scream cut through the rain.
A child's scream.
Thomas turned.
Rosa came racing back around the corner.
This time she was not running from him.
She was running toward him.
Two men in dark clinic jackets were behind her.
"Mr. Rousseau!" one shouted. "Stop her!"
Rosa slammed into Thomas so hard her wet forehead struck his belt buckle. She wrapped both arms around his waist.
"They're beating my mama!" she screamed.
Thomas looked down.
The girl's face was streaked with rain and tears. A square of medical tape clung to the inside of her elbow.
"Who is beating your mother?"
"The men at the blue house. She told me to run. She told me to find you."
Thomas's expression changed by less than an inch.
"She told you my name?"
Rosa nodded frantically.
The clinic men slowed as they approached.
"Sir," the taller one said, trying to smile. "Dr. Moreau wants the patient returned. She is confused."
Rosa buried her face against Thomas's coat.
"I ain't confused."
Thomas looked at the man's right hand.
There was blood on the cuff.
"Where is her mother?" Thomas asked.
"I don't know anything about that."
"Wrong answer."
The man's smile collapsed.
The second orderly reached inside his jacket.
Thomas moved first.
He caught the man's wrist, drove it into the brick wall, and a compact pistol clattered into the gutter. Before the orderly could shout, Thomas's elbow struck his throat. The man folded to his knees.
The taller orderly backed away.
"You don't understand. Jacques said-"
Thomas grabbed him by the collar.
"Jacques said what?"
The man went pale.
A black sedan turned the corner.
Thomas's driver, Antoine, braked hard at the curb.
Thomas opened the rear door and pushed Rosa inside.
"Lock it."
"What about you?" she cried.
Thomas looked toward the clinic men.
"I am going to ask a question."
The taller man swallowed.
Thomas stepped close enough that the man could smell whiskey on his breath.
"Why was an eight-year-old girl held in my clinic for four months?"
"You authorized the testing."
"I authorized blood work. Observation. I did not authorize imprisonment."
"Jacques said the child was dangerous to you."
Thomas's eyes hardened.
"How?"
The man hesitated.
Then he looked at Rosa through the sedan window.
"Because of what the DNA showed."
Thomas did not move.
Behind the glass, Rosa lifted one small hand and pressed it against the window.
The orderly whispered, "Sir, Dr. Moreau said you were never supposed to know who her father was."
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