We weren’t planning a mega-St.-Pat’s Day party anyway.”Ĭonnell knew Jackson-they had worked together before. “Better to be safe than sorry.”Ĭonnell agreed. Places to hide weapons-places for people to hide. Several dozen family mausoleums and concrete or marble tombs. “There were times when we didn’t take graffiti in cemeteries seriously. “And everyone is a little bit Irish on St. “I wish I had a definitive answer for you,” he said.Ĭonnell had come to the Krewe offices specifically asking for help.A threat had come from the cemetery and while the Krewe of Hunters members naturally kept the secret of Jackson leaned against the concrete of the building, shaking his head. “What do you think,” Detective Angus Connell asked Jackson Crow, walking around one of the small mausoleums in the historic cemetery. S he just didn’t think anything was going to happen that night. While she and other Krewe members saw and spoke with the dead-when they remained and chose to be seen-her feeling about this had nothing to do with any special gift, curse, or talent. Instinct, or her gut, and nothing special about that. Instinct told her nothing was going to happen that night. She knew Jackson would stay through the night along with the local police and a handful of Krewe members. She crept around, heading along the structure herself, searching.īut whatever it was she had seen-or thought she had seen-it was gone.Īnd there was nothing here tonight to fear. The shadow had slipped behind one of the Gothic family mausoleums that dotted the rolling landscape. She slipped around the side of the huge oak where she’d been waiting and watching, though it had not been the dead she had been looking for, but rather the living. Or maybe it was because she and others were on stake-out in the cemetery for a reason. Some who were dead in fact became very good friends and many before moving on, helped the Krewe of Hunters find justice again and again.īut something had seemed extremely eerie about the shadow. One shadow seemed to watch her from the cover of darkness, and then disappear into the very void created by the coming of the night.Īngela Hawkins wasn’t afraid of cemeteries. The cemetery was bathed in a strange red glow and shadows. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living, or dead is entirely coincidental.Īn owl hooted just as the moon, rising over the crimson and gray shades of dusk, slipped behind a cloud. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Please help stop internet piracy by alerting the author with the name and web address of any questionable or unauthorized distributor. Please report the unauthorized distribution of this publication by contacting the author at, via email at or at Heather Graham 103 Estainville Ave., Lafayette, LA 70508. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Copyright © 2021 by Slush Pile ProductionsĪll rights reserved.
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