Page 3 of Xavier

No, she had no business walking through the doors of the bar. Not to mention, she was under strict orders to keep her nose clean. No drugs, no drunken brawls, no contact with mafia or cartels.

Above all, she had to stay within her geographic parole limits. The monitor on her ankle would alert her parole officer if she stepped outside the boundary. Oh, she could go to New Orleans to meet with her parole officer on a scheduled basis or with permission and only supervised by her grandmother or someone in law enforcement.

Lissette tried to swallow the lump rising in her parched throat. She hadn’t felt this isolated and...lonely...since she’d been ten—homeless, parentless, and taken in by Child Protective Services.

Then, as now, she’d been remanded into her grandmother’s care. Only this time, instead of picking her up, her grandmother had called the prison to say her car had broken down and wouldn’t be out of the shop for a few days.

Lissette had arranged with the warden for the prison bus to drop her off outside Bayou Mambaloa. Not on Main Street, thank the gods. She’d find her own way home and report in once she got there. If she didn’t report within an hour of the bus driver dropping her off, they’d send local law enforcement to collect her and bring her back to prison until her parole officer sorted things out.

Nope. Nope. Hell nope.

With a sigh, Lissette squared her shoulders, ignored her thirst and marched past the Crawdad Hole, her attention averted.

“Hey,” a female voice called out.

Lissette frowned and kept walking. Whoever it was couldn’t possibly be hailing her unless she wanted to curse her or tell her she wasn’t welcome.

“Lissette,” the voice sounded again, vaguely familiar and more insistent. “That is you, isn’t it?”

Hearing her name called out, Lissette wanted to keep walking, but curiosity made her stop and glance toward the bar and grill.

The pretty redheaded waitress, Danny French, shaded her eyes with one hand, her other hand holding a thick beer mug drenched in condensation.

Lissette’s eyes narrowed. She responded with a slow nod.

Danny met and held her gaze for a moment. Without a word, she set the mug on the picnic table.

Lissette remained where she’d stopped. The last thing she wanted was to start a conversation with the waitress. She didn’t want to explain why she’d tried to kill Shelby Taylor, and she sure as hell didn’t want to tell anyone what it had been like in prison.

Danny gave a slight dip of her head, turned and walked back into the building, leaving the mug on the picnic table.

If she’d had any pride, Lissette would have walked away without looking back. She swept her tongue across parched lips, the condensation on the mug tempting her more than whatever cool liquid was inside.

Was it a trick? Had Danny set her up to fail on her first encounter back in Bayou Mambaloa? Was the mug full of cool beer straight from the tap?

Her lips pressed together.

Curiosity and thirst drove her forward. When she reached the table, she stared down into the mug full of a clear, colorless liquid.

Her frown deepened as she lifted the mug, her warm hands wrapping around the cool glass. She pressed the mug’s moistened exterior to her cheek and neck, reveling in the coolness.

Then she sniffed the liquid inside.

No scent. But then Vodka didn’t have a strong aroma, did it?

With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she lifted the mug to her lips and sipped.

It was cool, clear, ice water, with the last vestiges of cubes melting away as she stared down at the offering.

Not a trick. Not a test. No confrontation, accusations or judgmental glare.

Just...water.

Lissette tipped the mug back and drank it halfway down, some of the liquid spilling out the sides, across her chin and down her neck.

When she lifted her head, a slight movement in the darkened doorway of the bar and grill caught her attention.

Danny stood in the shadows, watching her, a tray balanced on her hip, for only a moment, then she faded into the dark interior.