Devil Dead by Linda Ladd

where Black sat and watched them in silence.
    He said, “You’re going private, Claire. This could be your first case. It’s in New Orleans, so you could set up your office there while you work it. But it’s completely up to you whether or not you take this. Totally. I’m not saying a word, one way or the other.”
    Well, thank you a whole helluva lot for that, Black, she thought. Put the onus on me with the kid’s mama begging and crying all over my pants. But yeah, he was right on. It was her decision, and hers alone. But with a grieving, despairing, pitiful mother right there, weeping and clutching Claire’s knees in a death grip, what choice did she really have? Let’s see, what should she do, just push the little lady off, get up, and say, “Sorry, Charlie, ain’t gonna happen. I don’t deal with gangstas”? Okay, true, Claire could be a hardass at times, that was a given, but Abigail Quinn was plucking at Claire’s heartstrings like a professional harpist. That didn’t happen all that often, either. When the woman lay her cheek down on Claire’s knees and started sobbing out loud, Claire threw in the proverbial towel. She patted Abigail Quinn’s neatly sprayed coiffure.
    â€œOkay, please, stop crying, Mrs. Quinn, you don’t have to do this. I’ll do my best to find Andrea. But I’m gonna need some pictures of her, the most current ones you have. I need to know her likes and dislikes. What she does in her spare time. I need copies of any letters or e-mails that she has sent to you since she’s been in New Orleans, the names of anybody she’s met and mentioned to you. I need to know her habits, her college major, and a list of her classes and her professors.” She stopped and thought a second. “And I need to know where she lives and who she lives with and who her friends are. Both at Tulane and from when she lived in Paris. I need to know more about this Pierre Dubois guy and if he’s ever been in New Orleans to visit her. And I’ll need anything else you think will help me find her.” She paused again and looked down into the woman’s white, worry-wrenched face. “I’ll do my very best to find her for you, Mrs. Quinn. I won’t stop looking until I do find her. I can promise you that much.”
    And Claire would do exactly that. She wouldn’t stop until she knew what happened to Andrea Quinn. She just hoped the poor girl was alive somewhere, maybe off partying with a hot boyfriend named Pierre down in the bars at Cancun or in the Bahamas or in Key West. But a really bad feeling was creeping up and down Claire’s spine now, rippling over it with some rather foreboding cold chills, even, and she was now five thousand miles away from where the girl had last been seen. But Black was smiling at her and looking very pleased, and so was Jonas Quinn. Abigail was staring up at her, and for the first time, hope was alight inside her tearful and swollen eyes, and then the woman was up on her feet and running to gather the things that Claire needed to locate her daughter and bring her home, safe and sound. It was her first job as a private investigator, and one hell of a job to be sure. On the other hand, it should be more than interesting, considering.
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    Witch Way
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    Too frightened to move much or even make a sound, the little girl cowered just inside the Sanctuary door while her mommy sat in the bathtub and hummed out that same word, over and over and over. Then the child thought about dashing back to the house. But if Spirit didn’t go with her, the evil creatures in the dark might attack her. So she just sat there and remained very quiet. She spent the time looking around the Sanctuary and admiring her mommy’s paintings. There were all kinds of circles, most of them with big five-pointed stars inside them, and other strange letters and symbols that