Chapter 13 Quinn
THIRTEEN
Quinn
Parade Permits: Every Carnival parade organized by a krewe requires a city-issued permit, outlining approved routes, security measures, and timing.
These regulations ensure public safety while balancing the logistical demands of large-scale celebrations with the traditions each krewe seeks to uphold.
The tarot reader watches Keller walk away for only a split second before turning back to me. "Perhaps he's not ready. Shall we continue?"
I nod, half wondering if he really does have a cramp. My palms rest flat on my thighs. The purple cloth between us is soft and faded, worn smooth by hundreds of readings.
She shuffles the deck with practiced hands. The cards whisper against each other. She cuts the deck three times, then lays three cards face up in a row.
I watch her fingers instead of the cards. She places each one precisely, pausing a fraction of a second before she speaks.
"The first card." She taps it once. "Forward motion. Professional ascent. You've worked hard to get where you are. The path ahead is clear if you choose to walk it. But you will be faced with several hard forks in the road."
My breathing stays even. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The same pattern I use in interrogations when I need to stay neutral. I wonder if I'm wearing something, or carrying myself in a way that would allow her to deduce that.
"The second." Her finger moves to the middle card. "A hidden variable. Something you don't yet see clearly. It influences your outcomes whether you acknowledge it or not."
The breeze shifts, and Spanish moss behind her sways. A jogger passes behind me, footsteps fading.
Okay, now this is getting a little too close for comfort.
"The third." She touches the final card. "Divided allegiance. Loyalty on one side. Truth on the other. You stand at a crossroads, and the choice will define more than your career."
I keep my expression flat, trained to listen without reaction. Years of sitting across from suspects and witnesses taught me how to receive information without giving anything back. But she is closer than she should be.
Loyalty versus truth.
I think of Keller's face Friday night at the bar when I asked him why he wasn't forthcoming about what he does. I gave him a hard time for whitewashing it, for calling it finance instead of what it is.
The irony burns. I'm doing the same, whether I chalk it up to part of my job or not, the result is the same I chastised him about.
He has no idea that his family's business details, shipping routes, log going back nine months, sits in a folder on my desk. He does not know that every detail he shares lives in my memory differently than it should.
The reader watches me. Her eyes are soft but sharp, and I'm sensing she sees something. I don't know what, but I feel it.
"You're good at compartmentalizing," she says. "It serves you well in your work, but compartments have walls, and walls can become prisons. Just be careful."
My throat tightens. I swallow it down.
"You're good," I say with a nervous laugh. "I certainly will. Anything else?"
She shakes her head slowly. "The cards show what they show. What you do with the information is your choice."
She gathers the three cards and slides them back into the deck. Her movements are unhurried, but the ritual is complete.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a twenty for a tip. Keller already paid more than the cost of two readings, but I can't walk away without paying something. I stand and push the chair back under the table.
"Thank you so much. You've given me a lot to think about."
"Be well," she says.
I turn and walk toward Keller. He stands near a low stone wall, one leg stretched behind him, hands braced on the rough surface. His face is still pale. I can't shake the thought that something she said to him hit a nerve.
I approach him slowly, giving him space to compose himself. Up close, the tension in his jaw is obvious. His fitted long-sleeved athletic shirt clings to his perfectly chiseled chest, damp at the collar. Sweat darkens the hair at his temples. He looks relaxed from a distance.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He straightens, rolling his ankle in a slow circle. "Just a cramp. I probably shouldn't have sat down so quickly after our run, being out of practice with running."
I neither accept nor reject the explanation. His eyes stay fixed on the path ahead, not on me.
"What did you think? Want to walk?"
"She was interesting, for sure. Yeah, let's move. I don't want you to cramp up again."
We fall into step together, walking beneath the canopy of oak branches. Morning light filters through the leaves in shifting patterns. The air smells green and damp, river water and wet earth mixing with the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine somewhere nearby.
"Tarot." He shakes his head. "It's entertainment. Cold reading and vague statements that could apply to anyone."
"Sure." I step around a raised root in the path. "Most of the time."
"Most?"
"Some readers are intuitive. They pick up on patterns, body language, vocal inflection, the way someone holds their shoulders or avoids eye contact." I glance at him. "It's the same skill set as reading a poker table, I imagine. You look for what doesn't fit."
The same way I do, I almost add. But I don't.
His thick black glasses catch the light as he tilts his head. "Impressive. I guess there is a skill set for everyone. She wouldn't be doing it unless she could make it seem believable."
"I think some people are hyper aware of outside perspective."
He doesn't respond right away. We pass a woman pushing a stroller, her toddler pointing at a squirrel darting up a tree trunk. The wheels crunch over gravel.
"Outside perspective," he finally says. His voice is flat. "That's one way to put it."
I recognize that shift, the careful neutrality that settles when something lands too close.
The urge rises to ask about his mother. The tarot reader mentioned a maternal presence, an unresolved weight. His reaction was visceral, physical. Whatever she touched on, it wasn't entertainment.
But I don't think I've earned the right to ask that of him. If he wants to share, he will.
Knowing someone is not the same as interrogating them. I don't get to pry open his history just because I'm curious. He shared that his mother died when he was eleven. That's what he offered. Anything beyond that belongs to him until he chooses otherwise.
And honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready to go deeper either. The reader's words about compartments and prisons echo in my head. If I start asking questions, he might start asking them back.
We walk in silence for another minute. The path curves toward Royal Street, and the sounds of the city grow louder. Cars are increasing as the city wakes up.
Keller's shoulders relax by degrees, and the color returns to his face. Whatever passed over him at the tarot table seems to be receding, or at least being pushed back into whatever box he keeps it in.
We have that in common.
"There's a place up ahead," he says. "Cold-pressed juice. They do a pomegranate juice thing that's supposed to be good for muscle repair."
The shift in his tone is deliberate. I let it happen.
"Juice?" I raise an eyebrow. "Do you have muscle cramps often?"
I nudge him, letting him know I'm giving him a hard time, not judging.
"After a hard day lifting, I need it." His mouth curves slightly. "I'm not ashamed to admit I need it from time-to-time."
"I don't know if I trust a man who drinks pomegranate voluntarily."
"Very funny. Real men only eat fried food and drink soda?"
"Good point."
He laughs, and it's genuine. The tension in his jaw is finally gone. We reach the edge of the park where the path meets the sidewalk. Traffic moves in both directions, and a streetcar rumbles past in the distance.
The juice bar sits on a corner lot, wedged between a vintage clothing store and a place that sells handmade soaps. Two bistro tables crowd the narrow sidewalk. Green awnings provide shade, but the morning heat already presses down.
"Tell me what you like, and I can suggest some of my favorites."
"I like citrus, nothing sweet, earthy in there is okay, too. Surprise me."
He doesn't put up a protest, which I secretly find confident and sexy. He orders for both of us. Orange, ginger, turmeric for me, and a pomegranate mint for himself. The cups sweat in our hands before we even sit down.
"I actually looked this place up while you were ordering. Sounds like I have been missing out. This place is all the rage."
"I would never lead you astray. Stick with me, kid." He settles into the metal chair across from me, and his easy smile nearly undoes me.
"Quality control." I take a sip. The tumeric is bright and bold. "I like to know what I'm getting myself into."
"You realize that makes you sound like a skeptic."
"I don't deny that it is one of my personality faults. Comes with the job, I suppose. Check everything, and then check again."
His mouth twitches. "Are you auditing me, Ms. Mercer?"
"An auditor never stops auditing."
He smiles, and a small, bright, red drink mustache sits on one corner of his mouth.
I want to reach over and wipe it for him.
A delivery truck double-parks across the street just before the door slams, and it makes me jump.
I follow his line of sight to see the driver hauling boxes into a store while cars edge around him.
"You pretend not to care what people think." I set my cup down on the small round table. Condensation pools beneath it. "But I can tell you're always observing."
He tilts his head, considering. "Observation isn't the same as caring."
"Isn't it?"
"I notice patterns. It's useful information." He adjusts his glasses, pushing them higher on his nose. The gesture is small, almost unconscious.
"For instance, you don't like pulp, right?" He nods toward my cup. "You mentioned that at the gala. Something about texture."