Laurel barely heard the woman's chatter. Her focus was completely on the Catahoula hound that had destroyed the first constructive thing she had accomplished since leaving Georgia and her career behind. She had come back to Louisiana, to Bayou Breaux, to heal, to start over. Now the first tangible symbol of her fresh start had been uprooted by a rampaging mutt. Someone was going to pay for this. Someone was going to pay dearly.

Letting out a loud primal scream, she grabbed her brand-new Garden Weasel and ran across the courtyard swinging it over her head like a mace. The hound bayed once in startled surprise, wheeled, and bounded for the back wall, toenails scratching on the brick, dirt and debris flying out behind him. He made a beeline for the iron gate that had rusted off its hinges during the time Belle Rivière had been without a gardener, and was through the opening and galloping for the woods at the bayou's edge before Laurel made it as far as the old stone fountain. By the time she reached the gate, the culprit was nothing more than a flash of blue and white diving into the cover of the underbrush, sending up a flock of frightened warblers to mark his passing.

Laurel dropped the Garden Weasel and stood with her hands braced against the gate that was wedged into the opening at a cockeyed angle. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her heart was pounding as if she had run a mile, reminding her that she was still physically weak. A reminder she didn't appreciate. Weakness was not something she accepted well, in herself or anyone else.

She twisted her hands on the rusting iron spikes of the gate, the oxidizing metal flaking off against her palms as she forced the wheels of her mind to start turning. She needed a plan. She needed justice. Two months had passed since the end of her last quest for justice, a quest that had ended in defeat and in the ruination of her career and very nearly her life.