Page 3 of Blood and Sand

Chanel and I had known each other since high school, and we hooked up on occasion. But when I met my ex-wife, our on-again-off-again sexual relationship ended. It was no secret that Chanel hated Dana for tying me down. For unknown reasons, the woman believed we were high school sweethearts and would eventually marry. We were not high school sweethearts, and I would never marry her. Let’s just say, she was the only one who was thrilled when Dana and I divorced.

Same as in high school, we slipped back into our old routine—I’d get drunk, call her so we could fuck, then I’d leave, or she’d leave, depending on the situation. That was the extent of our non-relationship, and there was no way in hell I would let Chanel stay in my house when I wasn’t there. We didn’t have that type of connection, and we never would.

I ignored her use of the term of endearment the first time, but I couldn’t let it slide anymore. Every time she used it, I inwardly cringed, and I’d told her constantly not to say it. She wasn’t my girl, my woman, nor my wife, so I sure as hell wasn’t her baby.

“Don’t call me that.” I didn’t wait for her response because she’d play ignorant. She always did. “We’ve already had this talk, Chanel. Don’t call me that shit, and you’re not staying here.Ever.”

“Why?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “It’s because ofher,isn’t it?”

Yes, it’s because of her, was what I should have said, but I didn’t owe Chanel or anyone else an explanation for what happened inside my own damn house. I picked up her clothes from the floor and tossed them at her. “Get dressed and be gone before I get out of the shower.”

I stalked across the hall to my master bedroom to shower away the stench of alcohol and sex, slammed the bedroom door behind me, then locked it. I didn’t need Chanel anywhere nearourspace. It was bad enough I’d allowed her intoourhome. I would wait for the guilt to swamp me after Chanel left.

No matter how long it had been since Dana left, I’d never been able to have another woman step foot in the bedroom we shared. Until a few months ago, Chanel hadn’t even been allowed to step foot in my house, and I only allowed it now because I got tired of dishing out money for cheap hotel rooms when I had a perfectly good spare bedroom with a decent bed I could use for free.

By the time I stepped out of the shower, Chanel was long gone, and once again, I was in my house alone. At times, it was depressing, mostly around this time of year. Everything reminded me of DeeDee. I refused to change a single thing, keeping it just how she left it, from the same furniture to the pictures on the walls. It was the only thing that kept her in my life. Other times, I worked so much, I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

I constantly replayed our last time together like a film flickering through my mind. I’d watched her hold back tears and pack her bags while my stubborn ass smugly looked on, daring her to leave me.

She showed my ass.

When I didn’t call within her requested time frame, the divorce papers were served the following week, stating irreconcilable differences. Although I’d wanted to fight for our marriage, I’d remained steadfast in my decision. I couldn’t uproot my life for her because of my job.

Selfish, I know.

So, she started her new journey without me.

It was the biggest mistake I’d ever made. A mistake I was still paying for.

I looked down at the gold wedding ring on my finger and twisted the thick yellow band. After three years, I still couldn’t bring myself to take it off. If I did, it was admitting we were truly over. I still couldn’t let go.

I shook my head. “Get your head out of your ass, LaCroix,” I berated myself for dwelling on shit I couldn’t change. “You got murders to solve. No time for a pity party now. You made your decision. She’s gone. Now, fucking live with it.”

I dressed quickly, secured my sidearm to my waist, and then downed four aspirins with Jameson from the bottle sitting on my nightstand. After I snatched up my keys and phone, I rushed out the door.

Chapter two

Detective Rey LaCroix

LaurelsBayou

Arriving at the crime scene with only minutes to spare, I pulled off to the side of the two-lane rural road just in time to see the sun peeking over the horizon. To keep the area as secure as possible, the crime scene had been cordoned off with squad cars and yellow caution tape, and portable blue screens had been erected, but their true function was to shield the bodies being pulled from the dark water from the media.

The local media were like vultures. They’d already gotten wind of the two new bodies that had been discovered floating in the murky waters of Laurels Bayou, and they’d descended on the area like flies attracted to shit. These bodies represented the tenth and eleventh to be pulled out of this same bayou in the past eight months.

I exited my truck and pushed my way through the growing crowd of reporters shouting questions and their cameramen.

“Detective LaCroix, is there a serial killer in Louisiana targeting Black women?” Stacy Benoit, a reporter for WTEA-Louisiana, yelled, sticking a microphone in my face. She gave me that smile she always plastered on her face whenever she saw me. The "if you tell me what you know, I will make it worth your time” smile. I wasn’t falling for that shit again.

Stacy and I had spent a night or two together after my divorce, but I cut her off quickly after I discovered that she’d sucked my dick for an anonymous source within the police department rather than us enjoying great food and sex.

I pushed the microphone away without answering her question. Even though it was Stacy, I wanted to scream, “Hell yes, there is a serial killer targeting Black women in Louisiana,” to issue a warning for women to be on guard. However, I knew they’d force me off the case if I responded. So, I remained quiet. It was better to be on the case than not.

“Detective LaCroix, do you have any suspects?” another reporter I didn’t recognize yelled. He looked as though he was fresh out of high school and wasn’t old enough to be at a crime scene. I refused to answer his question as well.

But the answer was fuck no. Despite the increasing number of victims filling the morgue, we didn’t have any suspects. Regardless of the eyes we had on this killing field, whoever the murderer was, he came and went as he pleased, dropping bodies along the way.

“Can you give us something, Detective LaCroix?” the young reporter continued. “Women are dying, specifically Black women. What are the police doing to stop these murders?”

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