Sleepover at Riggs’ house, my ass. They probably all told their parents they were sleeping over at each other’s houses. Didn’t they realize you can’t con a con? Guess not, because here I stood in the middle of the freaking night, just to make sure my little brother kept out of trouble. I watched them edge toward the back of the cemetery, and I followed down the fence line toward one particular live oak, stepping over several gnarled roots — not easy for those inexperienced in six-inch-heel boots. But I’d managed that fine art during my partying days on the cobbles of River Street. I was a total pro. Finally, they got within earshot once again, and they were so busy shoving and calling each other perverted names that none of them even knew I was around. Good. I’d sneak up on them, scare the crap out of them, then drag them all home before someone called the cops.

I gave my outfit a quick glance and then gauged the challenge before me. It just figured that the day I wore my leather miniskirt and spike-heel boots to the shop, I had to scale an eight-foot chain-link fence. If Riggs’ mom had called a little earlier, I would have changed. But I’d locked up and hurried out, and when I’d caught sight of them on Victory, I never would have thought the goofballs would sneak into Bonaventure. It wasn’t as easy to do as it’d been when I was a teen. So there I was, skirt, spiked boots, and all. Good thing no one but the dead would see my hiniesca (high-nee-sca is a juvenile, made-up word for ass, and I use it frequently) when I shimmied over the top. I drew a deep breath and gripped the bars with both hands. Even in hot, muggy August, the dew-covered steel felt cool beneath my palms. I found the old notches in the oak — the same ones my friends and I had used back in my wild days — dug the toe of one boot into the gash, and stretched my other leg out until it hooked the top of the fence.