New Orleans—thirteen years later One week before Mardi Gras
"I KNOW YOUR secrets. And you know mine."
The hairs on the nape of Britta Berger's neck stood on end as the note slipped from her hand to the wroughtiron table. She'd already sifted through a half dozen letters for her Secret Confessions column at the magazine she worked for,
Naked Desires. All erotic. Some titillating, others romantic as they described various private confessions and sexual fantasies. Some bordered on S and M. And others were plain vulgar and revealed the debauchery of the South's sin city.
But this note felt personal.
An odd odor wafted from the envelope, a scent she vaguely recalled. One that made her skin crawl.
Powdery sugar from her morning beignet settled like snowflakes on the charcoal–gray paper as she glanced around the crowded outdoor café to see if someone was watching her. A drop of sweat trickled into her bra, a side ...
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