His truck had been parked in front of her Subaru, and he’d insisted on being a part of this madness. After leaving Bo with a bewildered Freya, they’d taken the old Ford to the hospital. Slade had followed the police car, and Valerie, lost in thoughts of Cammie, had barely registered the familiar scents of dust and leather inside the pickup. She’d kicked aside a tool belt that had been tossed onto the floor and stared out the passenger window, her reflection pale and wan in the glass smudged with nose and paw prints. She hardly remembered the traffic or the drive through New Orleans, though she did hear the sound of church bells as she stepped out of the truck, their somber tolling emanating from St. Marguerite’s Cathedral not a mile away. The sun was playing hide-and-seek. Clouds were collecting, moving over the city again, shadowing New Orleans like a pall. Valerie shivered as they reached the back door to the hospital and stepped inside, where voices were hushed and footsteps were softened by a gray, industrial carpet.
