He’d never left Michael’s side during the long hours of questioning at the police station after the bodies were discovered, nor later, when the sordid details of the murder-suicide had hit the papers. He’d been friend, confidant and spiritual adviser to Michael as he struggled with the agonizing decision to leave the priesthood, when even his own mother hadn’t been able to look at him, much less forgive him.

For so many years now, Dominique had been the one constant in Michael’s life, and he sometimes wondered where he would be without the priest’s unflagging support and acceptance.

Dominique lifted his wineglass now and watched Michael over the rim. “So tell me what it is that’s weighing so heavily on your mind tonight.”

Michael waited until the table had been cleared, then he picked up his own glass and sipped, his attention caught for a moment by the flickering candlelight.

“I’m worried about one of my patients,” he finally said.

“Is it something you can discuss with me?”

Michael’s gaze was still on the flame. He wanted to talk about Sarah, but for some reason, he found it difficult to, even with Dominique. Perhaps especially with Dominique, considering how much he knew of Michael’s past. A line had been crossed once and lives were destroyed. Vows had been compromised and two people were dead, because of Michael’s moral failings.

He’d made a promise to himself and to whatever god he still believed in that he would never make that mistake again. He would never give in to his weakness. And yet, long after Sarah had left his office yesterday, he had sat in his garden and thought about her.

Michael was no stranger to desire. After Elise, there had been others. Quite a few when he’d first left the church. But not because he’d been trying to make up for lost time, but because he’d been searching for something he’d still yet to find.

In some ways, Sarah was very much like him. Always searching. Always wanting. A fallen angel who belonged to neither heaven nor hell, but rather existed on the fringes of a world that didn’t understand her, and therefore, would never fully embrace her.

“Do you know anything about dissociative identity disorder?” he asked Dominique.

“It’s what they used to call multiple personality disorder, isn’t it? At one time, demon possession might have been considered the cause of such an affliction.”

“In which case, my past would hardly qualify me to be of much assistance,” Michael said ruefully.

“Or perhaps it would make you uniquely qualified,” Dominique said with a smile. “At any rate, I thought the disorder had been mostly discredited by the psychiatric community some years ago.”

“Yes and no,” Michael said. “It’s a controversial diagnosis, no question, and there are some therapists who flat-out discount it as a valid disorder. But I try not to base my opinion on the latest fad or current debate raging within the pages of the psychiatric journals.”

“So I take it you’ve witnessed firsthand these multiple personalities in a patient.”

“I’ve noted three separate alters so far. The interesting thing is, though, I’ve yet to meet the host, which is usually the identity that most often initiates treatment. In this case, the dominant personality in the sessions is a young male who calls himself Jude. He claims he’s the protector.”

“Who is he protecting?”

“That’s yet to be determined. I’ve also caught glimpses of a childlike alter, a young boy. I believe this identity represents the host as a physically or sexually abused child. At some point, the child was able to slip into a state of mind in which it seemed that the abuse wasn’t really occurring to him or her, but to somebody else.”

“The protector?”

Michael nodded. “And now the protector has returned, because he perceives—rightly or wrongly—that the host is in trouble.”

Dominique leaned in, obviously intrigued. “What kind of trouble?”

“Possibly from another alter,” Michael said. “A third personality. The appearance was very brief, but I had the sense that this identity is also male, perhaps a little younger than the protector. And he’s the one with all the rage. I think that’s why Jude came to see me. He’s been able to maintain his dominance until now, but the anger may be getting too strong for him to control. The only way he can contain it and protect the host is to find a way to merge all the separate identities into one unified alter.”

“Which is where you come in.”

“Hopefully, yes.” Michael polished off his wine as the waiter discreetly left the check. “There’s another aspect of this case that I find particularly troubling. I’ve detected some inconsistencies in Jude’s demeanor. I think he’s become very adept at deception, probably because of his need not only to protect the host, but also to fool the abuser. It’s also possible that I’m being played.”

Dominique lifted a brow. “Are you saying the whole thing could be a hoax? Why would someone go to so much trouble?”

Michael shrugged as he signed the credit-card receipt. “A need for proof of an existing psychiatric disorder perhaps. It’s happened before, believe it or not.”

The check settled, they walked out to the parking lot together. Dominique paused before climbing into his car. “The rage you spoke of earlier...if there really is an identity that is filled with so much anger, would you consider such an alter dangerous?”

“Under the right circumstances.”

“Then be careful, Michael. Whether the disorder is real or a deceitful performance, you may be dealing with someone extremely cunning and dangerous.”

Michael thought about the warning as he drove home in the rain. He’d sensed danger, too, that day in his office, but he hadn’t wanted to worry Dominique, so he hadn’t told him about the eyes of the third alter. Seething with pent-up rage, almost glowing with hatred. That brief glimpse had almost been enough to make Michael believe in demons again.

He tried to put it out of his mind as he considered the possibility of stopping somewhere to buy flowers to place on Elise’s tomb. But it was late and the cemeteries in New Orleans were places of danger after dark. Tomorrow was Sunday. He had all day to wallow in his penitence if he needed to.

He parked in the garage when he got home, and as he came through the side door, his attention was drawn to the garden. He always left a lamp on in his office, and in the light that filtered through the glass panes in the door, he saw someone sitting at the top of the stairs. Head bowed, arms hugging knees. Shivering in the cold, wet air.

Pausing for only a split second, Michael walked through the gate and quickly crossed the garden. At the bottom of the steps, he hesitated again.

“Hello,” he said as he started up the stairs. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Silence.

The head lifted and was caught in the light.

Michael drew a quick breath. “So,” he said softly. “Which one are you?”

Chapter 19

Halfway between New Orleans and Adamant, the heavens opened up and the rain blew in heavy sheets across the freeway. Traffic slowed to a crawl as emergency flashers blinked from the shoulder of the road where drivers had pulled over to wait out the storm.

Sarah tried to keep going, but the rain came down so hard she could barely see past the windshield. Creeping along behind a line of cars, she took the next rest-stop exit and parked. She ran the heater for as long as she dared, but when the storm showed no sign of letting up, she had to shut off the engine. Huddling in her jacket, she put back her seat and tried to relax.

Somehow, she managed to doze off and when she awakened, the rain had slacked to a shower and the rest-stop parking lot had emptied. Only a few other cars remained, along with a couple of eighteen-wheelers.

Checking the dash clock, Sarah realized she’d slept for over two hours, unheard of for her. And now she felt groggy and out of it. She needed to wash her face and use the restroom, but she wasn’t all that keen on getting out of the car so late at night.

But the call of nature was urgent. She didn’t have a choice. And there were still a few other people around. She watched from the rearview mirror as a woman with two little girls came out of the restroom. They lingered underneath the cover near the vending machines while the woman dug in her purse for change.

Sarah got out of the car and hurried across the parking lot to the pavilion. Nodding at the woman, she pushed open the door to the ladies’ room.

The place was a typical public restroom. Sarah chose the cleanest-looking stall and went in. After she was finished, she walked over to the sink to wash her hands and splash cold water on her face.

As she bent over the sink, she heard the outer door open and close. She thought at first that the mother or one of the little girls had come back in. She finished washing her face, and as she reached for a paper towel, she glanced in the mirror.

Slowly she turned. That was odd. Whoever had opened the door hadn’t come all the way into the bathroom. Sarah’s gaze went to the partition that separated the stall area from the outside door. Was someone behind that thin wall? Waiting? Listening to her every move?

Her heart started to pound as she stood motionless. Almost breathless with fear.

And then, very softly, the door opened and closed.

Hooking her purse over her shoulder, Sarah ran out of the bathroom and glanced around. The woman and little girls were gone. The covered pavilion was empty.

No reason to panic, she told herself as she headed toward her car. A few vehicles remained in the parking lot. She wasn’t alone.

Nevertheless, she dug her keys out of her pocket and clutched the remote, ready to sound the panic button if anyone approached.

When she reached her car, a gust of wind swept raindrops across the parking lot. Shivering, Sarah pressed the unlock button, her gaze scouring the shadows as she climbed in and locked the doors.

Once inside, her tension eased, but she continued to scan the area, searching, she realized, for a dark green sedan.

By the time she rolled into Adamant, it was well after midnight and the streets were deserted. Even in prime-time hours, the town didn’t offer much in the way of excitement.

On a Saturday night, most of the teenagers who were old enough to drive made the twenty-minute trek into El Dorado, the county seat. Or else they spent the evening driving the main drag, the two-lane highway that ran straight through town, with only a handful of traffic lights to slow them down.

Adamant hadn’t always been so dead. It had once been a thriving community. Dependent on the declining cotton and timber markets at the turn of the last century, the town’s fortunes had reversed in the early twenties with the discovery of oil in the area.

When Busey Number One hit near El Dorado, the economy was blown sky-high. Geologists, speculators and wildcatters poured in from every corner of the country and wooden derricks rose overnight to mar the scenic vistas.

But the windfall soon played itself out. Wells that had run at full capacity during the peak went dry. Natural gas was allowed to escape into the air and spills contaminated the ground water. Within five years, the oil boom had gone bust and the skeletal remains of the oil derricks and the dark holes that burrowed deep into the earth were all that remained of prosperous times.

Adamant was now a ghost town, Sarah thought as she drove through the darkened streets. At least for her it was. Whatever charm the town once possessed had long since withered and died. All that remained now, other than an abundance of churches and gas stations, was a stagnant community that existed on memories.

The rain was still coming down when Sarah pulled into the driveway. She sat for a moment staring up at the house. Tall and imposing even in the dark, it was the kind of place that was envied and admired, the kind of house that strangers stopped to stare at, especially in the summer when the gardens were in full bloom.

Sarah’s father had once employed a gardener in the warm months, but Esme was never satisfied with his work. She didn’t trust him with her prized peonies, and donning bonnet and gloves, she’d chase him away every chance she got.

It was still a beautiful house. Still James DeLaune’s showplace. But it wasn’t Sarah’s home and never had been.

Using the remote Esme had given her, she parked in the garage, and then grabbing her suitcase from the trunk, carefully navigated the slippery walkway to the house.

Kicking off her shoes in the mudroom, she set down her suitcase in the kitchen and turned on a light. Shrugging out of her wet jacket, she glanced around.

So, here I am again.

The first thing she’d noticed upon returning was that nothing much had changed since she’d been shipped off to boarding school. The kitchen was the only room in the house that had been touched, and here only the appliances had been updated. The layout was the same. The blue-and-white color scheme the same.