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the ring and Antwaun’s connection to Kendra Yates, and they both speculated over how the police had identified her so quickly.
    Jean-Paul muttered something about Antwaun always finding trouble, then turned to stare out the window, and Damon stepped on the gas, his anxiety rising with every passing second. He wanted to hear exactly what Antwaun had to say.
    His brother had lied to him before. Antwaun knew more than he’d admitted about this woman, Kendra. And Damon intended to find out what Antwaun was keeping from him and why the police, his own fellow officers, suspected he might be a murderer.
    * * *
    A PRESS MOB AWAITED A NTWAUN at the police station, turning his steel nerves to mush. How the hell had they identified this victim and discovered his involvement with her so quickly? Cameras flashed, reporters shoved microphones toward his face, firing questions at him that blurred in a giant fog.
    â€œOfficer Dubois, were you the last person to see Kendra Yates alive?”
    â€œIs it true that she was mauled by the gators, that only her hand was found?”
    â€œDo you know who left her to the gators?”
    â€œIs there another serial killer in New Orleans?”
    â€œDid you kill her, Officer Dubois?”
    Antwaun barely resisted shooting daggers at the reporters with his eyes and clamped his mouth shut, knowing anything he said might be misconstrued. Why the fuck was the press so interested in this story? Who had leaked the details of the crime scene to them?
    His throat clogged with emotions at the realization that Kendra was dead. Mon coeur he had called her. She’d asked about the French Cajun term and he’d taken her hand and placed it over his chest. “My heart,” he’d said, letting her know it belonged to her.
    She had been so young, so pretty, her body lithe and elegant like a dancer’s. Her hands had been like magic, those slender fingers always gliding over him, so titillating and ready to please. And that tongue—she was sharp witted and quick with words, yet in bed she’d used that mile-long tongue to bathe him in ecstasy. Hell, she’d been a pussycat, who’d lapped him up like a bowl of cream. No wonder he’d fallen for her.
    His partner ushered him to the side door while the lieutenant fended off questions with a statement about releasing information as soon as it became available.
    Jean-Paul and Damon arrived and wove through the crowd. One of the reporters snagged Jean-Paul by the shirtsleeve, forcing him to stop. Jean-Paul curled his hand into a fist, and Antwaun waited with bated breath, half hoping his older brother would lose his cool just once and pound the guy’s mouth shut.
    â€œDetective Dubois?” the catty reporter snarled at Jean-Paul. “We know how the cops think. They protect their own. How can the public get justice in this case?”
    Jean-Paul stabbed him with a knifelike glare, but kept his fist clenched by his side. “We are here to see that justice is served.”
    â€œHow is that possible? Antwaun Dubois is not only surrounded by his friendly police force, but you and your brother, a federal agent, are here to defend him.”
    In a barely controlled move, Jean-Paul jerked the man by the tie, knotting it into his fist until the pissant coughed to get air. “My brother is here to help his fellow officers find this woman’s murderer. Now, get out of the way.”
    Antwaun’s emotions boomeranged between gratitude to have his brothers on his side, and humiliation that they had to be. His partner pushed him inside the door, and Antwaun glared at a couple of rookies who watched him with lecherous expressions as if they were ready to string him up and hang him.
    Clenching his jaw, he braced himself to face being seated on the other side of the table in the interrogation room. He knew how the cops would play him; he’d acted the role of bad cop a hundred times himself, although truth be