Chapter 40 Ghost
GHOST
GIVEN THE NUMBER OF TIMES I’VE FUCKED GENEVA SINCE WE LEFT New York, I’d swear we’re actually newlyweds.
Something about murder has really changed her. Empowered her. The thrill of the chase and the rush of the kill have connected us in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I’m more than addicted to Geneva.
I’m hers.
A devoted worshipper at the altar of her violence.
As I watch her now, her profile illuminated intermittently by the sunlight coming through the window, I can make out the subtle changes that mark her evolution.
There’s a determined set to her mouth that wasn’t there before.
A hardened glint in her eyes as well. She’s becoming something… formidable.
I can’t—and don’t want to—stop it.
Every so often, she shifts in the seat next to me, the movement subtle yet filled with a restless power that seems to draw me in, over and over again. I can’t get enough of her. If I could carve myself into her skin and be inside her permanently, I would.
Geneva turns to look at me, a tiny smile playing on her lips as if sensing the endless yearning inside me. She reaches out, her fingers brushing mine with a touch that sends a jolt through my body.
Every. Single. Time.
As the flight attendant passes by us with a courteous nod, I keep a watchful eye, ensuring our conversation remains private. We’re on our way to a city of masks and macabre, perfect for the kind of work we’ve set out to do.
“Bisset will think he’s safe in New Orleans,” I say quietly. “It’s a clever move, burying his tracks in a city known for its distractions and celebrations. We’ll need to stay under the radar by using the crowds, the jazz clubs, and the markets to our advantage.”
Geneva nods, absorbing every detail. Her mind is quick, her adaptation to this life impressive, but she still relies on me to guide her through the intricacies of this underground world.
Her eyes light up, and she leans in closer, her voice a whisper. “What’s our plan this time?”
I smile at her. “Rule number three: Always know more about your target than they know about you. Surveillance first, action later. New Orleans can be overly crowded, but with the right strategy, it’s just another chessboard.”
The flight continues with us talking quietly, her laptop open between us but angled away from curious eyes. I show her maps of the city, pointing out potential hotspots where Bisset might conduct his business, using my experience to predict his moves.
Geneva takes a deep breath, and I frown at the way her brows pinch together. “What is it?” I ask. When she averts her gaze, I reach out and grab her chin, forcing her eyes to mine. “Tell me.”
“What if Bisset doesn’t know who hired him? What if we never find the person behind my parents’ murders?” She briefly closes her eyes, and when she opens them, they’re dull with worry. “I’m not sure I can handle the disappointment. Not after being this close.”
I tighten my grip on her chin. “Bisset is crucial, but he’s not our final stop. We’ll keep digging because whoever orchestrated your parents’ deaths is likely the same person who tried to have you questioned by Carter. There’s a trail. There always is. And we’re going to find it.”
She nods slowly, and I release her.
“And there’s something else,” I say with a grin. “Telford is still alive. I left him with Benedetto. He’s being ‘babysat’ until we need him.”
Her reaction is immediate, her eyes widening with a mix of shock and confusion. “You kept him alive? Why?”
I tap her nose playfully. “Because he’s the only link we have to the person responsible for coming after you.
I’m insane, Geneva, but I’m not stupid. I’d never kill the most valuable lead we have.
At least not until I’ve tortured him to the fullest extent and I’m certain of two things.
One, he has no other information to offer.
And two, that he’s suffered for what he tried to do to you. ”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It would be one less thing for you to worry about.”
She pauses, and then laughs softly. “Picturing Benedetto as Telford’s babysitter… I can only imagine how well that’s going.”
I nod in agreement. “Benedetto’s keeping him watered and fed, so he’s still useful. Given your penchant for revenge, I haven’t had ample time to ‘question’ Telford extensively. But I will after we’re done with Bisset.”
Geneva shakes her head with a small smile. “I have no doubt.”
The humid air of New Orleans clings to my skin as Geneva and I navigate through the bustling streets of the French Quarter. Our mission today requires a touch of local flavor: decorative masks for Mardi Gras.
We stop at a stall abundant with several options, each one more elaborate than the last, adorned with feathers, beads, and vibrant colors that capture the spirit of the city.
I pick up one that’s dominated by dark hues with intricate silver stitching.
Geneva chooses something with an ethereal quality, delicate feathers and soft gold tones that conceal the steely resolve she carries.
“I like this one,” Geneva says. “It’ll match the dress I’m wearing tonight.”
“Whatever will make my wife happy.”
She rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed with my ongoing commitment to the charade of newlyweds.
We pay the vendor in cash. No names. No conversation. Just two tourists passing through, intentions hidden even deeper than our identities.
As we weave back into the French Quarter crowd, the noise swells—jazz from a nearby balcony, laughter from tourists stumbling out of a bar, the echo of footsteps against pavement.
My focus is on the feel of Geneva beside me.
The way her body moves in tune with mine, unspoken choreography born of trust and familiarity.
She slows before pausing, her eyes squinted.
I follow her line of sight, finding her gaze lingering on a narrow storefront tucked between a tarot reader’s parlor and a bar pulsing with bass.
The voodoo shop is dark but open, lit by flickering candles and the dull red glow of a neon sign in the window. It reads MAISON AUX ESPRITS.
House of Spirits.
“We’ve got time to kill,” she says. “And I’ve always wanted to know what’s real and what’s just for show.”
“Whatever my wif—”
Geneva slaps a hand on my mouth, her brown eyes sparkling. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
I follow her inside without another word, the heavy scent of sage, wax, and something older wrapping around us like a veil.
The temperature drops instantly, the noise of the Quarter swallowed the moment the door shuts behind us.
Shelves line the walls, cluttered with jars of dried herbs, small bones, glass vials, and strange little dolls with beaded eyes that seem to follow you when you move.
“Welcome.” The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with a keen eye, watches us from behind the counter. “You came just in time.”
Geneva shoots me a look, cautious but intrigued.
I say nothing.
“I’m just curious,” she says.
As Geneva asks him about some trinkets on a nearby shelf, I take the opportunity to look around, noting the cameras and any potential back exits. The shop is a fortress in its own right, with charms and wards decorating every possible entry point.
“You have a very unique aura, sir,” he says, addressing me directly with hesitation. “Since I opened this shop, I’ve encountered many energies, but yours is… singular.”
“Yeah, it’s called ‘big dick energy,’” I say.
The shopkeeper smiles wide. “If you’d allow it, I would like to offer you a free reading. It’s not often I get the chance to explore such a distinct presence.”
Geneva doesn’t say a word. But I catch the subtle glance she throws my way. It’s a mixture of skepticism and interest.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair like a man defeated by love or lunacy. Maybe both.
“Whatever my wife wants,” I mutter.
The shopkeeper chuckles. “Smart man. Or dangerous woman?”
Geneva smirks, but she doesn’t deny it.
The shopkeeper guides us to a secluded corner of the store, cordoned off by a series of aged velvet curtains that muffle the sounds of the bustling street.
He gestures toward a small, round table dimly lit by a hanging bulb overhead.
The atmosphere is thick with the scent of incense, enhancing the mystical aura of the space.
He invites me to sit across from him at the table, where a deck of tarot cards lies fanned out in an intricate display. “Let’s concentrate on you,” he suggests, his eyes narrowing slightly as if to peer through the facade presented by my demeanor.
Geneva stands off to my right, her arms crossed and her lips pursed in thought. The shopkeeper shuffles the deck with practiced hands and then spreads the cards before me with a flourish.
“Please, cut the deck,” he instructs me.
I comply, splitting the deck and feeling the weight of each card under my fingers, wondering if this is just theatrics or something more telling.
He begins laying out the cards, flipping the first to reveal The Hermit.
“This represents introspection, seeking answers,” he interprets, his gaze flicking up to meet mine.
He lays out a few more cards, creating a narrative of solitude and inner journeys, but his rhythm breaks when he flips The Lovers card.
“This one,” he begins slowly, “often reflects love, but not in the traditional sense. It’s more about choice and duality coming together to create something formidable.”
The shopkeeper places The High Priestess card next to The Lovers.
“Here we see secrets and hidden knowledge,” he explains, his voice lowering as he points to the image of a woman holding a scroll.
“This card indicates mysteries not yet unveiled and a feminine energy guiding you. There is wisdom yet to be discovered, and it directly relates to both the pain of your past and the path you must walk now.”
I stiffen while keeping my facial expression in check, knowing he’s brushing against memories I prefer to remain buried.
The mention of past and present inevitably draws a line between Abby and Geneva.
The former haunted me with unresolved endings, and the latter has grounded me with newfound strength. And purpose.
The shopkeeper pauses, his eyes darting between Geneva and me. “Your energies are quite uniquely intertwined. There is a strong connection here.”
“Told you,” I say to her.
She punches me lightly on the shoulder, her smile full of affection. And love.
“Ah, I see it now.” He grins. “When she touches you, it’s as if she cancels out some of the darkness. It’s quite rare… You, sir, carry a heavy burden, a lot of darkness.”
I shrug. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Her presence seems to act as a… Bezoar,” he says. “A Bezoar, in the mystical sense, is something or someone that can neutralize poison, and in your case, it appears she has a significant impact on your well-being. I’ve never seen such a profound effect of one person’s energy on another.”
Lastly, he turns over The Star card. “Hope,” he whispers. “Despite the darkness, there is light guiding you forward.” He nods in Geneva’s direction while addressing me. “You are not alone in this journey. The light she brings is essential to navigating through the shadows that linger around you.”
This time when I say it, I mean it with quiet reverence. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Geneva stands perfectly still, her expression unreadable. But I know her well enough now to recognize the flicker in her eyes. She felt it too. The shift. The truth buried beneath a simple metaphor.
She cancels the darkness in me.
Geneva is like moonlight touching the ocean—constant, relentless, lighting even the darkest waters, whether it’s calm or storming.
I reach for her, weaving my fingers through hers, gripping tightly. “I don’t need a clairvoyant to tell me that she saves me. I feel it. Every single moment I’m with her.”