Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The car hums beneath me, a low, steady vibration that seems to settle somewhere in my bones as I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary.
The road to Miami stretches out ahead in a long, unbroken ribbon of darkness, broken only by the occasional streetlamp and the pale wash of moonlight spilling across the asphalt.
The world feels distant out here, stripped down to headlights and shadows, to the quiet rhythm of tires against pavement.
Bennett is asleep back at the house, unaware that I slipped out without a word.
He won’t notice. Lately, I’ve learned how to move through my own life without leaving much of a trace, drifting from room to room with Whitney’s journal pressed to my chest, my thoughts circling the same questions until they lose all meaning.
But tonight, the journal isn’t enough.
Tonight, I need something more than fragments and instinct. I need answers.
Madam LaRoux’s address leads me to a building that looks like it’s been forgotten by time.
The paint peels in long, curling strips from the exterior walls, the metal railing along the stairs streaked with rust, a flickering overhead light casting everything in an uneven, sickly glow.
I hesitate at the base for a moment, unease prickling along my spine, before forcing myself forward.
By the time I reach the third floor, my heart is already beating too fast. Each step creaks beneath my weight, the sound echoing in the narrow stairwell, louder than it should be.
The hallway smells faintly of mildew and old smoke, the carpet worn thin in places, exposing the darker threads beneath.
It feels like stepping into something abandoned, something that has outlived its purpose but refuses to disappear.
Her door is easy to miss, unmarked except for a crescent moon painted in chipped gold at eye level.
I knock.
The sound is softer than I expect, swallowed almost immediately by the stillness around me. For a moment, nothing happens. Then the lock clicks, and the door opens.
She isn’t what I expect.
Madam LaRoux is young. Beautiful in a way that feels deliberate but not artificial, her dark eyes sharp and steady as they settle on me, as if she’s already measuring something I haven’t said yet.
Her hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, her skin warmed by the dim red light spilling from the room behind her.
She looks real.
That unsettles me more than anything else.
“You’re late,” she says, her voice even, controlled, without the theatrical flourish I was expecting.
She steps aside, and I move past her before I can second-guess myself.
The room is exactly what I imagined and yet somehow more suffocating for it.
Rich fabrics hang from the ceiling in deep reds and purples, softening the edges of the space, while low music hums faintly in the background, something slow and atmospheric that seems to press in from all sides.
Shelves line the walls, crowded with crystals, candles, jars filled with dried herbs and powders I can’t identify.
At the center, a small round table draped in velvet waits beneath a single flickering candle.
It’s curated. Intentional.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
My attention drifts to a shelf near the far wall, drawn to something that doesn’t quite belong with the rest. A journal sits there, its leather cover worn but rich, a pomegranate etching pressed deep into the surface as if it had been branded there.
The edges of the pages are thick, uneven, deckled in a way that makes them look older than they are.
I reach for it without thinking, my fingers brushing over the cover.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, my voice quieter than I intend.
“Ah,” she says, and this time there’s a trace of something like amusement in her tone. “You have a good eye. Persephone’s journal. Queen of the underworld. Embrace the darkness to find the light.”
She shrugs lightly, as if the story attached to it doesn’t matter. “I found it at a flea market in New Orleans. Take it.”
I hesitate for only a second before pulling it closer, holding it against my chest. “Thank you.”
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the chair across from her.
I do, lowering myself into it, my nerves sharpening as she takes the seat opposite me. The scent of incense lingers in the air, thick and musky, curling into the back of my throat. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“Payment first,” she says finally, her tone shifting back to something more practical.
Of course.
I reach into my purse and pull out the cash, sliding it across the table. Her eyes flick to it, quick and precise, before she tucks it away into a drawer beside her. Only then does something in her posture ease.
“What do you want to know?” she asks, her voice quieter now, stripped of the performance I expected.
I place Whitney’s journal on the table between us, my fingers lingering on the cover.
“My friend, Whitney Winthrop,” I begin, and despite everything, my voice falters.
“She died a few weeks ago. A yacht explosion. Everyone says it was an accident, but I don’t believe that. I think her husband killed her.”
For a fraction of a second, her expression shifts.
It’s subtle, almost nothing, but I see it. A flicker of recognition. Of something closer to fear.
She swallows, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.
“What is it?” I press, leaning forward, my pulse quickening. “You know something.”
“I shouldn’t,” she says, and this time the hesitation is real. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Did she come to you?” I ask quickly. “Is that why she had your card?”
“No.” The answer comes too fast, too sharp. “She never came to me.”
“Then why?” I demand, the frustration pushing through. “Why would she have this?”
She hesitates again, longer this time, her hands twisting together on the table as if she’s trying to decide something she can’t take back.
“If you repeat this,” she says slowly, her voice dropping, hardening, “I will deny it. To everyone.”
I nod without thinking, the urgency outweighing everything else.
Her eyes hold mine.
“Phillip Winthrop is my father.”
The words land hard, disorienting in their simplicity.
“Your father,” I repeat, the meaning struggling to settle into place.
“My real name is Courtney Winthrop,” she says, the name sounding strange in her own mouth.
“We’ve been estranged for years. After my little brother died in a boating accident, everything fell apart.
I wasn’t… handling it well. Pills, mostly.
I became a problem he didn’t want to deal with. So he cut me off.”
My mind reels, trying to reconcile this version of Phillip with the man I thought I knew, with the version he presented to all of us. He never mentioned a daughter. Not once.
“Why would Whitney have your card?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more careful.
Courtney shakes her head. “I don’t know. But if my father is involved in anything you think he is, you need to understand something.” She leans forward slightly, her voice lowering. “You are not dealing with someone who plays fair.”
The room feels smaller suddenly, the air thicker.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?” I ask. “If you suspect—”
“I don’t suspect anything,” she cuts in sharply. “Not in a way that can be proven. And even if I did, I wouldn’t go near them with it. Phillip doesn’t lose control of a situation. Ever.”
She stands abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor as she moves to one of the shelves. For a moment, she hesitates, then reaches for a small bundle wrapped in dark silk. When she returns, she places it in front of me without explanation.
“Take this,” she says.
I glance down at it, unease settling in my stomach. “What is it?”
“Something you’ll need,” she replies, her tone final. “And don’t tell anyone where you got it.”
Her gaze flicks briefly to the journal still resting in my lap, the one with the pomegranate pressed into its cover. “That too. Some things find you for a reason.”
I don’t argue. The bundle is heavier than it looks as I slip it into my purse, my thoughts already spiraling, trying to piece together what I’ve just been handed.
Courtney’s composure is slipping now, her eyes moving toward the door, then back to me, as if she’s suddenly aware of how exposed she is.
“He’s powerful,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “Be careful.”
It sounds less like a warning and more like a prayer.
Before I can respond, she turns and disappears into the back room, the curtain falling closed behind her.
I don’t stay.
The hallway feels colder when I step back into it, the air heavier, as if something followed me out. By the time I reach my car, my hands are trembling, the pomegranate journal tucked under my arm, the weight of the silk-wrapped bundle pressing against the inside of my purse like something alive.
I sit there for a moment, the engine still off, breathing through the sudden rush of nausea that climbs up my throat. The pieces are shifting again, rearranging themselves into something darker, something more dangerous than I anticipated.
Phillip has a daughter.
Whitney had her card.
And now I have whatever Courtney thought was worth risking everything to give me.
I start the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady growl, and pull back onto the road toward Tigertail.
Toward home.
Toward the place that used to feel like a sanctuary and now feels like something else entirely.
My own version of paradise that’s turned into a prison.