Chapter 10
Laurette Devereux
Nothing screams spiraling like stalking your own mailbox before sunrise.
The second I step into my heels and shrug on my blazer, something tightens in my gut. A pulse. A whisper.
Check the mailbox.
I grab my phone and step outside, heels tapping against the walkway, the morning air already thick with heat and magnolia. The street is quiet as the sun crests over the rooftops. The city hasn’t fully stirred.
My eyes scan my surroundings. Nothing. Of course, no one’s here this early.
I open the mailbox and… fuck me. It’s there.
Another note.
Cream linen this time. Thick. Expensive. Monogrammed with a black B. The ink is deep, not ballpoint or gel. A calligraphy pen, maybe.
My breath catches as I lift the flap. No seal. No glue. No barrier.
Just invitation.
I can’t get you out of my fucking head. See you soon, Laurette.
—B
My stomach flips, a tight coil twisting low. He was here again. Right here.
I glance around. He could be out there now, watching me, hidden just beyond sight.
My fingers tighten around the card, knuckles whitening. “It was almost flattering at first. But let’s get something straight. You don’t get to decide you’re the one. I get to decide which man is in my life. That’s my choice.”
The trees don’t rustle, and the wind doesn’t answer. Still, I sense it. He’s somewhere obsessing over me, even if he’s not here.
Back inside, I slip the envelope into my blazer pocket. I open the security app on my phone and scrub through the footage from last night.
There he is, the same as Friday. He walks to the mailbox, opens it, and slides the envelope inside. No hesitation. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fidget. He stands there, staring at my house.
At me.
Then he turns and walks away, same direction as before. He disappears from the frame, his vehicle never once coming into view.
He has all the control, every last inch of it, and the fact that I don’t is something I’m not built for. It constantly worms its way into my thoughts, throwing my center of gravity off.
I’ll knock on every neighbor’s door if I have to. Pull footage. Track routes. Build a timeline. Find the pattern he thinks I won’t see.
I’m the fucking Assistant District Attorney of Orleans Parish. I do not get stalked.
Not in my city. Not on my street. Not without a fight.
If he thinks he’s hunting me, he’s about to learn what happens when the prey bites back.
The office is louder than usual when I walk in—not with voices but with energy. Phones light up. People cluster in small groups, murmuring. Eyes flicker toward me.
I set my coffee down, already annoyed. “Okay, who died?”
Tobias is at my desk before the words finish leaving my mouth. “Silas Rourke.”
Dying… that’s the first decent thing he’s ever done.
I’ve dreamed of taking down that son of a bitch since the day I was sworn in as Assistant District Attorney. The moment I read my first case file with his name on it, I confirmed the rumors.
Predator. Manipulator. Monster in a tailored suit.
He lured vulnerable girls in with promises of fame and used them. Drugged them. Fed them into the machine of his filthy little empire. Addiction became his grip. He didn’t need chains when he could make them crave the cage.
He wasn’t merely vile. The bastard was untouchable.
And now he’s dead.
I should feel relief, closure, justice. But all I feel is rage for every girl he broke.
“Tell me some girl’s father made him suffer.” I can’t stomach the thought of him dying peacefully—closing his eyes, drifting off, untouched by the lives he ruined. There had to be fear and pain. Without it, it won’t be enough. Not for the girls. Not for me.
“Stabbed multiple times. Killer cut off his dick and took it with him.”
A grim smile tugs at my mouth. “A fitting end for that bastard.”
“Holy shit.” Jonah from Felony leans over the partition, phone in hand like he’s flaunting a trophy. “This wasn’t just a murder. It was a message. Scene was surgical. No blood spray beyond the perimeter, no prints, no defensive wounds. Whoever did it has skills.”
I arch my brow. “Professional?”
“Absolutely.” He shakes his head. “One of the techs even said it reminds him of some other scenes, same signature. And the victim’s always someone who’s done enough that nobody sheds a tear when they disappear.”
A Dexter Morgan type?
Hmm. I can get on board with that.
Tobias crosses his arms. “You spent years trying to pin Rourke. Every time we built a case, something slipped.”
“Slippery bastard always got away.” I pause and let it settle. “Someone’s made sure that never happens again.”
I lift my coffee and take a slow sip, the satisfaction curling warm behind the bitterness.
Outside, I’m calm. Inside, I’m reeling.
Someone acted as judge and jury for that piece of shit. That monster got exactly what he deserved. Makes my job a hell of a lot easier.
Where should I send the thank-you note?
Evening in the Garden District is rarely this quiet. There is usually movement, music spilling from courtyards or open windows, and laughter drifting down sidewalks. But tonight is different.
I walk the neighborhood, knocking until one of my neighbors answers.
Two houses down, where a jungle of overwatered ferns overtakes the porch, Mrs. Dubois peers through a lace curtain, her yappy terrier perched on her hip.
I offer a polite, practiced smile and shift the folder in my arms. It’s easy to slip seamlessly into the polished role I wear daily—professional, composed, controlled.
“Oh, hello, Laurette,” Mrs. Dubois says, adjusting the small dog. “Harvey, hush now.”
The terrier lets out one more defiant yap before going quiet.
“Good evening, Mrs. Dubois… and sweet Mr. Harvey. I’m so sorry to bother you, but there was a break-in last night just a few streets over.”
Her eyes widen. “A break-in? Out here? That doesn’t happen in our part of the district.”
“I know. It’s terrible. I’ve always felt so safe in this part of the city. That’s why I’m checking with neighbors to see if anyone might have caught something helpful.”
She exhales and gives a small nod. “I have cameras. My son made me install them after Walter passed. Said I shouldn’t be living here alone without them.”
I nod, offering a reassuring smile. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check your feed. It might’ve caught someone on camera.”
Her expression shifts to concerned curiosity, and she nods. “Of course, honey. You can look at whatever you need.”
“Your footage might help us identify the person responsible. It could be the break we need.”
Mrs. Dubois beams, the little terrier wiggling in her arms as if it, too, senses victory.
“Really? Wouldn’t that be something? Me, helping catch a criminal!”
“You might be the neighborhood’s newest crime stopper,” I tell her with a wink. “Better watch out, I’ll be drafting you into the DA’s office.”
She laughs, delighted. “Oh my stars. Imagine that.”
I follow her inside, careful not to trip over ceramic frogs and garden gnomes. She sets the dog down and bustles toward a narrow side table cluttered with framed photos and mail.
She opens her laptop and pulls up the footage with surprising ease. “My son taught me how to back everything up to the Cloud.”
I blink, impressed. “Wow. Look at you. Tech-savvy and stylish.”
Mrs. Dubois preens a little. “Took me a few tries, but I figured it out. Not bad for seventy-eight, huh?”
“Not bad at all.”
I lean over, fast-forwarding through blank screens until the timestamp hits 11:52 p.m. Sunday.
A full-sized SUV—dark, probably black—creeps into frame and stops right in front of Mrs. Dubois’s place. The windows are tinted too dark to see inside, and the plates are conveniently out of frame.
A tall figure emerges, hood up, in dark clothes. He walks with chilling calm, disappears from view for two minutes, then returns and gets back into the SUV.
Mrs. Dubois’s eyes widen. “Oh my,” she whispers. “He looks dangerous.”
“He could be. Would you mind if I sent this footage to myself?”
“Oh, certainly, dear. Anything to help catch this guy.”
I nod, type in my email, and hit send. The file pings through.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dubois. You’ve officially joined the Garden District Watch.”
She grins, hands on her hips. “I’ve always had a nose for trouble.”
Back on the sidewalk, I pull out my phone and tap the footage open again.
Damn the angle, blocking the plates—but I’ve got the vehicle, the make, the model, and where he parks. It’s not everything, but it’s a thread. And every predator eventually leaves one hanging.
I return to my house and lock the door behind me, toeing off my heels. The house hums with silence as my mind runs inventory on everything I’ve gathered.
The video file waits, and I replay it. He’s real. He’s deliberate. And he’s watching me.
And now I’m watching him.
I set the phone down and stand in the center of the room, heart steady, spine straight.
I’m not afraid.
He thinks he is the only one playing this game, but I know the rules too. I’m going to map his route, trace every angle, and study every move until the pattern reveals him. And when it does, when the dots connect and the evidence breathes life into the truth, I’ll be there.
Laurette Devereux doesn't run.
She hunts.