Chapter 19
Nineteen
It started raining around four, the soft, steady kind that New Orleans got in the spring, more mist than storm.
By six it had knocked half the magnolia blossoms clean off the tree in the side yard.
I stood at the kitchen window and watched them come down, fat white petals bruising to brown the second they hit the wet grass, and thought that was probably some kind of metaphor.
For what, I had no idea.
Midnight House was quiet in the particular way it got after something enormous had happened in it.
Not empty, exactly. Just decompressed. Taylor's flight had left at four, and he'd texted from the gate to say he'd already been recognized by a stranger in the Southwest terminal as "the bourbon guy from that murder thing," which he seemed to consider a career highlight rather than a violation of at least three of his lawyer's instructions.
Vivienne had packed up an hour after the arrest, quiet and efficient, camera bag zipped, and paused at the door long enough to tell me she was pulling all the gala footage from her documentary cut.
"Evelyn wanted final approval on everything," she'd said. "She's not here to give it. Feels wrong to use any of it without her say-so, even now. Especially now."
I hadn't expected that from her, the woman who'd filmed a murder confession from her own lap without blinking, and I'd told her so.
"I film everything," she said. "Doesn't mean I use everything. Some stories belong to the people who lived them.” Then she'd knelt down and scratched behind Teddy's ears, told him he'd been the most reliable interview subject of the entire production, and left in a compact little rental car that pulled out just as the rain started.
Allison was still upstairs, ostensibly packing, though every time I passed Room Four the door was cracked and I could hear her narrating something to her phone in a hushed, thrilled voice that did not sound like a woman in a hurry to leave.
I didn't have the heart to rush her. She'd earned her material fair and square, secret society comment and all.
She did pop her head out at one point and said, “I need to share this with someone.”
“What’s that?”
“The cease and desist has no legal weight anymore without Evelyn. And my publisher moved my deadline back. It feels horrible to feel relieved, and yet I do. The book is back on track.”
I was happy for her. “Two things can exist at the same time. You can feel bad about Evelyn and relieved for yourself. You’ve put a lot of time into this book.”
“Thanks, Harper. You’re a good egg.”
My own phone buzzed on the counter. Patrick.
Saw it all over the local news. You okay?
I looked at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, Teddy watching me from his spot on the kitchen chair like he had opinions on the matter. He probably did.
I’m okay, thanks.
Want to meet up for a drink later?
I didn’t. Not tonight. Not ever. No sense in stringing Patrick along.
I don’t think so. I think I might have feelings for someone else and I don’t want to be like that with you.
Three dots, then a text.
Understandable. Take care of yourself, Harper.
I appreciated that he was cool about it. But at the same time, he had given up really easily. It told me I’d made the right decision. I set the phone face-down on the counter and went back to watching the rain.
The back door opened without a knock, the way it always did, and Hollis came in shaking water off his jacket like a dog.
"You could use an umbrella," I said. "They sell them at actual stores."
"I could." He hung the jacket on the hook by the door, the one that had unofficially become his over the past year, and reached for a mug without asking, the way he always did.
"Statement's filed. DA's talking felony murder and attempted murder both, plus assault for what he did to Hyacinth. He's not getting bail."
"Good." I meant it more fiercely than the word suggested. "How is Hyacinth? Have you heard?"
"Stable. Baby's fine, they're keeping her overnight as a precaution, but the doctor said everything looks good."
“Is she going to be in trouble for anything?”
“No, definitely not. She’s the witness that corroborates everything Reginald did and she didn’t do anything intentionally.
” He poured his coffee and leaned against the counter in the spot that had become his, too, ankles crossed, watching the rain streak the window over the sink.
"Robert's with her. He was a wreck in the hallway.”
"I think this was a milestone in their relationship."
"You always find the silver lining in a felony."
"It's a gift." I refilled my own cup, mostly for something to do with my hands. “Or as Taylor would say, poppycock.”
"That the title for the podcast episode?"
"Maybe. Maggie's going to want three episodes minimum. She's already texted me eleven times today with subject lines like 'skunk detective vindicated' and 'we need to talk about the checkers thing.'"
"The checkers thing being Reginald playing against himself in your parlor?”
"The whole city's going to know about the checkers thing by morning, Hollis. I give it until Tuesday before somebody's selling t-shirts."
That got the ghost of a smile out of him, the real one, not the flat detective one he wore for witnesses and reporters.
It had taken me the better part of a year to learn the difference between those two smiles, and I still felt a small, private satisfaction every time I got the real one out of him on purpose.
We stood there a minute, not talking, just listening to the rain hit the gutters and the low, contented hum of Teddy grooming himself on the kitchen chair. I thought about a man who loved old houses more than he loved the truth about them.
"You never told me how you knew," Hollis said, out of nowhere. "Not the timeline. The theory. Every step you took, you were already three ahead of where the evidence technically put you. I want to know how."
"Instinct," I said. "And dumb luck."
"Harper. It’s not dumb luck.”
I turned my mug in a slow circle on the counter, the way he'd been doing with his. "I just listen for what people actually need to say, instead of what they're saying."
Hollis was quiet for a moment, studying me over the rim of his mug in a way that made the back of my neck go warm.
"That's a real skill," he said finally. "I mean that. Not the smart-aleck version of a compliment I usually give you. A real one."
"Careful," I said. "I might start expecting these."
"Don't get used to it." But he was still looking at me. “I didn’t mean it that way. Not the way you took it. You’re not nothing. You are actually the opposite.”
For the first time in my entire life, I knew what people meant when they said they forgot to breathe.
"For what it's worth," he said, setting his mug down. "I've been telling myself for months that keeping this professional was the smart move. Neighbor. Sometimes-consultant. Occasional fake boyfriend when a suspect corners you at a coffee shop."
"Little pumpkin patch," I said, mostly to see him wince and because I was nervous as hell.
He didn’t wince.
"I stand by pumpkin patch." He took a step closer to me. "I'm done pretending the smart move is the one I actually want. When what I actually want is…you.”
Yep. Stopped breathing. I might have even blacked out.
“How so?” I asked, and my voice sounded ridiculous to my own ears. All flirty and full-bodied.
He closed the distance between us in a way that felt inevitable.
The kiss was unhurried, and a little rain-damp at the collar where he was still drying out. It lasted long enough for me to decide that this could be a very, very good thing.
He pulled back and smirked, just a little. “Like that.”
Nothing witty popped into my head.
“Have I actually made you speechless?”
I nodded. “It’s possible.”
Teddy let out an indignant chitter from the kitchen chair.
“Does that mean he’s happy?” Hollis asked.
“No. God, no. He’s furious. He’s jealous," I said, pressing my forehead against Hollis's for a second before pulling back.
“Great. I already have a rival.”
I went to check on my skunk, who was staring at us with the deep, wounded offense of an animal who considered himself the primary relationship in this kitchen.
"He'll come around. He likes you. He just doesn't like sharing me.
" I scooped Teddy up, and he settled against my shoulder with a put-upon sigh.
"Besides, he's got other admirers to worry about.
Maggie says the skunk detective clip from this morning already has forty thousand views.
Somebody in the comments called him the Hercule Poirot of the Garden District. "
"He'd probably prefer Sherlock."
"He'd prefer top billing over both of us, honestly." I carried him to the window, Hollis's hand finding the small of my back in a way that felt new and completely unremarkable at the same time, like we'd been doing it for years and were only now catching up to the fact.
Outside, the rain had softened to something closer to mist, and the last of the magnolia blossoms were coming down slow and unhurried onto the wet grass. The grandfather clock chimed in the front hall, on its own schedule.
“Maggie says I have a lot of haunted B&B competition.”
“Your house isn’t haunted.” He grinned. “It’s cursed.”
I rolled my eyes. “How do we spin that for more bookings? ‘We’ve got ghosts’ can become ‘Get cursed in New Orleans.’”
“Doesn’t have a ring to it.”
Midnight House would be full of new guests by next weekend, new stories, new small catastrophes that had nothing to do with dead socialites or falsified provenance or silver straws. There would be another case eventually. There always was, in a house like this one, in a city like this one.
But tonight there was just the rain, and the petals, and Teddy grumbling contentedly against my shoulder.
And Hollis Broussard standing in my kitchen without a single excuse left to be there, which, after a year of watching him invent new ones weekly, felt like its own small, quiet miracle.
"Coffee's getting cold," I said.
"Make more," he said, and didn't move from where he was standing, close enough that I had to laugh.
So I did.