Free Unmasked by Ingrid Weaver Page A

say that because I’ve never lied to you, Charlotte. I didn’t like Adrian.”
    “You hardly knew him.”
    “I didn’t move in the same circles as he did, but I recognized his type.”
    It had taken Charlotte five excruciating years to recognize what type Adrian Grant really was and another three before she’d finally divorced him. Her stubbornness hadn’t been due to loyalty to the man she’d married, it had been from an unwillingness to let go of her dreams and face reality.
    Still, she’d never spoken about Adrian to anyone. It was toohumiliating. “At the risk of making things awkward again,” she said, “I’d rather not discuss my marriage or my ex-husband with you.”
    “No problem. It’s not a topic I would enjoy either. But while we’re on the subject of the past, there’s something I want to clear up.”
    “Oh?”
    “I don’t hate the hotel.”
    “Jackson…”
    “After all the time we spent together when your family lived there, it was like a second home to me.” He slowed his steps. “That’s why I didn’t consider staying anywhere else when I came back to New Orleans.”
    “Yes, I suppose we both grew up there.”
    “I have a lot of good memories in those walls, in spite of how it all ended.”
    Each time she tried to throw some distance between them, he somehow made it dissolve. Yes, she wanted to answer. We have more good memories than bad. I was your Charlie and you were my best friend…and my first love .
    Charlotte realized with a start that they had reached the entrance to the lot. She could see Desmond, the attendant, dozing on his stool in the kiosk, his head resting against one of the glass walls. The sounds of the Quarter’s ongoing party were fainter here, lending an air of hushed intimacy to the darkness.
    How many evenings had she and Jackson spent strolling along these darkened streets like this, prolonging their time together? They’d always been loath to say goodbye.
    But that was half a lifetime ago, she reminded herself.
    “Which one’s yours?”
    “Mmm? Oh, the beige sedan near the light pole.”
    He put his palm on the small of her back as they walked through the lot. “As I recall, you used to dream of owning a Corvette like your papa’s.”
    “The sedan’s more sensible. It gets excellent gas mileage, too,” she added, although she didn’t know why she felt it necessary to defend her choice of vehicle.
    There were plenty of things she had dreamed about as a teenager that she knew better than to want now.
    So it was only a sentimental longing that made her want to step into Jackson’s arms and linger over their goodbye. Merely an echo of the past that made her want to feel his fingers in her hair again. Just a side effect of the memories. Nostalgia. Stress. Habit.
    She held out her hand. “My car keys are in the briefcase,” she said.
    He stopped at the rear bumper of her car, dropped the briefcase to the ground and grabbed her arm with his left hand. “Damn, not again!”
    “What—”
    He pulled her back to his chest and looped his right arm in front of her shoulders. “Hey!” he yelled, turning his head toward the kiosk. “Wake up!”
    The attendant didn’t stir. Through the corner of her eye Charlotte could see Desmond’s motionless form silhouetted against the glass, but she didn’t turn her head. She couldn’t. Once again she pressed into Jackson’s embrace, frozen in shock, and stared at the destruction in front of her.
    Every window in her car had been shattered. Crumbs of broken safety glass sparkled from the dashboard and the seatslike drifts of blue-tinted sequins. The upholstery had been slashed to ribbons, baring springs and spilling stuffing. A thin, long-bladed knife, like the one that had been driven into her desk the day before, was embedded in the top of the driver’s seat headrest.
    And trailing from the handle of the knife like some macabre decoration was a string of Mardi Gras beads that had been fashioned into a