Free The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) by Leo King Page A

anxious desire to thank her friend for his time and head home.
    “Sam, here is an idea,” started Jacob, his tone very businesslike. “Scrap the stories with Branston for now, and focus on a different series altogether. You may or may not know this, but last night a woman was brutally murdered.”
    Sam’s heart started to pound in her chest, her blood pressure rising, her mouth going dry. He isn’t about to suggest what I think he’s about to suggest. Is he?
    “The murder was very similar to the Bourbon Street Ripper murders. In fact, Caroline’s already having us call it a copycat. It would be an incredible tie-in for the granddaughter of Vincent Castille to write about this copycat, give it her own—”
    Something about Jacob’s suggestion set off an explosion in Sam’s skull. Her head started to ache, the veins in the side pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. Closing her eyes tightly, Sam took in a short breath and clenched her jaw. The world around her seemed narrowed, as if she were looking through a tunnel. She felt like everyone was now looking at her and waiting for a response.
    “I have to go,” said Sam, moving quickly as if she were in a bad dream that she had to escape. Reaching into her jeans’ back pocket, she threw out some money and gathered her things. In a heartbeat, she was walking out onto Decatur Street and heading toward the trolley stop.
    “Sam! Wait,” called out Jacob as he hurriedly paid for his own coffee, gathered his leather portfolio case, and followed. When he caught up to Sam, he added, “Look, I know that was in poor taste, but I’m just try—”
    “You’re damn straight that was in poor taste,” snapped Sam again, turning to Jacob, her voice low and venomous. “You haven’t the smallest clue how much it sucks being that man’s grandchild. I live every day with the memory of what he did to those women. What he did to me… ”
    “Sam… I… ” Jacob reached out to touch Sam’s shoulders, only to have his hands swatted away.
    “Just piss off, Jacob,” Sam snapped for a third time, everything around her moving in slow motion as she focused on her shocked friend. “A real friend would never ask me to capitalize on that bastard’s work. It’s bad enough that your newspaper is already calling this a copycat. How long do you think it will be before reporters are knocking at Samantha Castille’s door wanting an interview? You think I enjoy being known as a serial killer’s granddaughter?”
    By this point, Jacob was looking quite sick to his stomach. Sam, however, gave no indication she was going to let up, a rush of adrenaline pouring through her to the point that she felt like she was wading through a fog.
    “So whose idea was it? Yours? Caroline’s? Did you all have a group circle jerk and decide to ask Vincent Castille’s granddaughter to create the next series about the Bourbon Street Ripper murders?”
    “No,” said a pale-looking Jacob. “Nothing like that at all. I just thought that—” He softened and lowered his voice. “I thought that it might help you deal with those demons. By, you know, writing about it.”
    “Deal with it?” asked Sam, turning and walking away, Jacob following in a meek manner. “Let me tell you something about dealing with it. I haven’t slept well in over twenty years. I see and feel death all around me. Right now, every demon and dark loa in New Orleans is laughing at me. Tell me, how do I deal with that?”
    By this point, Jacob had the look of a man who’d rather be swallowing razors than staying where he was. Somehow, he managed to say, “Sam, you’re freaking out. Have you… have you taken your medicine today?”
    “Have I taken my medicine?” Sam yelled at Jacob. By now, they were both at the trolley stop, and the trolley car had arrived, heading uptown. Sam got on board, paid the toll, and then turned to offer one final attack on Jacob. “Yes, let’s just ask Sam the psycho if she’s