Sins of the Storm by Jenna Mills Page A

what?” Secrets screamed from every tight line of her body—a woman’s body that the girl had not possessed.
    He wanted…the secrets. He wanted the secrets. “What was it a question—”
    The sound of a floorboard creaking killed his words. He spun, reached for his gun.
    “Jack—”
    He pulled her away from the window and positioned her against the wall. “Stay here.”
    “No, don’t go—”
    “I’ll be back,” he promised, already running. Someone had been inside. Someone had been crouched in the darkness, listening. Waiting.
    At the door, he grabbed the knob and turned the small lock, pulled it shut behind him and ran toward the front of the house.
     
    She counted to ten. That was the only head start she would give him. By eight the sound of his footsteps had fallen silent. By nine, the front door had slammed shut.
    By ten, there was nothing.
    She broke from the wall and ran through the darkness, complete now, a total blackout. Jack had taken his flashlight, but she didn’t need it. The room stood empty. The door was just across—
    Her foot slammed into something solid and unmovable.
    She staggered and flung out her arms, went down hard. She tried to catch herself with her hands, but her wrist twisted, leaving the impact with the hardwood floor to sing through her bones. For a moment she sprawled on the floor of her father’s study in much the same place that she’d once seen him go down, and tried to breathe.
    “Cami.”
    The voice slipped through the stillness, and stopped her cold.
    “Camille Rose.”
    Her heart kicked. The voice…it was low and raspy, and through the darkness of her mind, something stirred.
    “It’s been a long time, sweet girl.”
    Sweet girl. The nickname speared deep, sent the room into a hard tilt. Only one man had ever called her sweet girl….
    “Daddy…” The word slipped past the horror. She heard her voice break, could do nothing about the way her throat closed up.
    “That’s my girl,” he said. “Easy does it.”
    The spinning intensified, whirling, blurring. Faster. Crueler. Harder. She fought it, fought the vertigo, the memory, somehow pulled herself to her knees, forced a breath. “Who are you?” she demanded.
    Not her father, she knew. Not. Her. Father.
    “You know who I am,” he whispered. “You’ve always known.”
    She blinked hard, told herself it wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. Wasn’t there. She was alone. Jack would—
    The light blinded her. It came on without warning and shot across the room, locked on her like the beam of a searchlight. “Still so damned pretty…”
    That voice. She knew that voice, had heard it….
    No. Denial streaked through her.
    No.
    He’d been in the room the whole time. He’d been in there when she and Jack had stood at the window, when they’d talked about Katrina. The man who now held the flashlight on her had made the noise deliberately to lure Jack away from her.
    “What do you want?” she demanded, and then she refused to kneel there like some trapped animal one second longer. She brought herself to her feet, lifted her chin. “Jack will be back—”
    “You know what I want,” the man said. “You’ve always known.”
    She wanted to back away. She wanted to charge forward. But she allowed herself neither. Not when the glare of the light blinded her. Not when she didn’t know exactly where he stood, or if he had a gun. “The map.” There was absolutely no emotion to her voice. “You want my father’s map.”
    “Always such a good girl. I knew you’d come back someday.”
    The memory stabbed—the photographs on the table depicting her mother’s car. She’d been driving down Canal Street. It had been dusk. The light had been green.
    Gloria Fontenot had never seen the car barreling down Rampart…
    The accident scene. Camille’s mother sprawled against the front seat of the car. The blood. The paramedics running toward the demolished car. Her mother on the gurney—in the hospital. All a