Chapter One
The panic-inducing sound of the phone alarm woke Ophelia at eight in the morning.
Her body responded with alertness, but her mind remained in a deep haze.
The start of a headache pressed against her temple.
She stretched her limbs out like a starfish in an attempt to snag onto the source of the offending noise.
Ophelia could never keep her phone charged and on her nightstand—it was her one small act of defiance in her otherwise orderly life.
As she continued to reach for her phone in the sheets, the dream came back in pieces—the gun, the tiger, the sense of protection she felt with the formidable beast standing over her.
She finally located her phone wedged between the mattress and tufted headboard.
A jolt of pain shot through the muscly bit between her thumb and index finger when she gripped the device, rescuing it from the memory foam crevasse.
She hastily turned off the alarm and dropped it back onto the crumpled sheets along with the full weight of her body.
She rubbed the tender spot on her right hand. It was sensitive and tight. What had she done for her hand to be this sore? Perhaps she slept on it funny.
Ophelia sat up slowly, attempting not to anger the headache that she now knew for certain lurked in the periphery. A brown case sticking out from under her bed caught her eye.
Her revolver case.
With utter disbelief, Ophelia crawled to the end of her bed. Her dad’s old revolver and its case. Lying at the foot of the bed where she had left it in her dream, even though it usually lived under her bed, locked. She cautiously picked up the gun and checked the barrel. Not loaded. Thank God.
Ophelia’s dad was a hunter and had three daughters that he taught to properly and safely use a gun.
When she moved back to New Orleans from New York a year ago, her father and mother begged for her to live outside the city, claiming it was safer for her to live in the suburbs alone.
She knew they were technically right, but Ophelia wanted to be in the city, so her dad insisted on giving her his old revolver for protection.
At the time, she rolled her eyes—Ophelia had a security system and lived in a decent part of town.
The need for an old, clunky revolver was pointless, but it made her dad feel better.
She placed the revolver back in its case under the bed and spun the five-digit combo until it was locked.
Had she really unlocked a combination lock, taken out the gun, and sat on the edge of her bed, pointing it at an imaginary animal, all while asleep?
Ophelia had never sleepwalked—or at least, she did not recall that she had.
Suddenly, her body felt cold and clammy as sweat formed under her arms. She’d had greasy Chinese takeout and some wine last night, which she had consumed many times before.
But she’d never woken up the next day feeling so dreadful and disoriented.
She opened her phone and tapped on Jolie’s contact. If anyone had insight into her sleep habits, it would be her middle sister.
Jolie picked up on the second ring. “Sup, sis,” she said in a distracted tone.
Jolie was the stereotypical chaotic middle sister of the Oubre girls, while their youngest sister, Evangeline, was the sweet baby of the family. Then there was Ophelia—the classic eldest daughter. Responsible, dutiful, and anxious. Although she was certain, she hid her anxiety well from others.
“Jo, have I ever sleepwalked?”
“You’re calling me on a Friday morning at work before I’ve had my second espresso to ask me that?”
Jolie worked at a stone and tile shop as their lead designer. She practically ran the place, so it was fine to call her at work.
Ignoring her sister’s sass, Ophelia continued. “Maybe in college, when I was drunk one night? I don’t know.”
Jolie hummed, and Ophelia could hear her take a sip of her espresso. “No, not that I recall. You were always the first to pass out and the first to wake up.”
Ophelia chewed on her lip, lost in thought. They’d shared a room when they were little and lived in the same apartment for the three years they had overlapped at Louisiana State University.
“Why you askin’?”
“Well—” Ophelia started, but she heard noise in the background of Jolie’s phone.
“Sorry, boo, gotta jet. Duty calls. I’ll hit you up after work.” Click.
Ophelia rubbed her face, clearing the sleep from her eyes. It would take all day for her to move past that dream. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that tiger. The last time was seven years ago in New York. She shook her head, trying to erase the memories of that horrid experience.
She walked to the bathroom, pressing the pads of her feet into the cold, tiled floor, enjoying the refreshing feeling on her flushed skin.
Ophelia did her morning routine without thought.
As she gazed into the mirror, she had the odd sensation of not recognizing herself, like the person staring back at her was a stranger.
She leaned in and examined her long nose, touching it as if she could mold it like Play-Doh.
She grazed her fingertips over her one mole that rested near the top right side of her lip.
It was one of the unique things about her—a beauty mole like the old movie stars.
After she brushed her long golden-brown tresses, Ophelia tied a thin black silk scarf around her head to keep the flyaways from her face and threw on a linen dress, which was about the only thing she could bear wearing during Louisiana summers.
The hostile sun charged across Ophelia’s face as she stepped into her backyard. Her iced coffee glass was sweating as profusely as she was. Grumbling to herself, she quickly walked across the lawn to her studio, flipping on the air conditioning unit the moment she stepped inside.
Her home office and sanctuary. An eight-by-eleven room with a deep sink in its back corner, one large window that allowed Ophelia to see the side of her yard, and one smaller window for the A/C unit.
The back wall of the studio was covered with funky blue-green-patterned wallpaper that, upon further examination, was repeated drawings of two dogs humping, a design her best friend, Jade, thought was hysterical and insisted she put it in at least one spot in her house.
In the corner of the room was an oversized feathered pillow that appeared to be a pet bed, but fit Ophelia quite well on afternoons when she needed to lie down and think.
Mounds of handcrafted pillows covered it, and above it dangled a mobile she’d made of her favorite things: a gemstone she didn’t know the name of (which allegedly held healing properties, according to Jade), a bundle of dried lavender, a crystal ornament in the shape of a snowflake, and a picture of herself and her younger sisters.
Everything in her studio was simply there because she liked it. Because it made her happy. In her cottage, everything was practical and made sense. Here in her office, nothing made sense—it was simply a smattering of happy things.
She moved to her desk, which was sourced from a warehouse consignment store off Jefferson Highway.
The wood had been significantly beat up when she brought it home, and Jolie helped her restore it by designing a stunning onyx marble top that felt like leather.
Ophelia often found herself stroking the marble like it was a pet or a lover.
She had the intense urge to rub her face along its cool, smooth surface to soothe her encroaching headache.
So she did. When one lived alone and worked from home, they were allowed to act unconventionally without judgment.
She could eat pickles for breakfast and work from the toilet, and no one would be the wiser.
However, Ophelia was a creature of habit and thrived on routine, so her penchant for peculiar behavior was minimal, but she liked the idea that she could if she wanted.
Even so, she often pretended someone was watching her, forcing her to “act” normally. It was likely an idea formed from childhood, like God with a capital G was always watching you. She hated the idea, but it stuck.
Ophelia glanced at the clock on her computer. It was nine a.m., and she had yet to do any work, so she turned her focus to the job at hand. She refreshed her email and watched a flood of spam and work emails appear in her inbox.
Ophelia ran a non-profit called Healing Artists that provided mental healthcare to local artists.
She had launched Healing Artists a year ago, right after she moved back to New Orleans.
In fact, the job was the catalyst for her move.
The board of directors offered her the executive director role based on her extensive business and financial skills from her time working in wealth management, as well as her degrees in finance and social work.
The offer came at the perfect time when she was already seriously considering moving back to New Orleans.
Ophelia was the classic eldest daughter who strived for perfection.
And, to her, perfection meant having an impressive, well-paying job that could sustain her, accrue savings, and make her parents proud.
She could have stayed and worked in Louisiana at a private wealth management firm, but that wasn’t enough.
It was like the school grading system followed her into adult life, and it wasn’t enough just to make an A.
She needed to be the best in the best city, so she left for New York after graduation and began her wealth management career.
She quickly realized real life was nothing like school. There were no grades or accolades. Just long, grueling nights of work, bad office coffee, and not enough time to make friends. But she stayed…For seven years. Seven fucking years. It wasn’t all bad, but it wasn’t all good either.
A couple years into living in Manhattan, she did eventually learn how to have a work/life balance that she found fulfilling.
She volunteered, she made friends, she attempted a couple relationships, but mainly had many hot and occasionally bizarre sexual escapades.
She needed to blow off steam from working so much, after all.
She even joined a weekend running club to maintain her fitness and friendships. Two birds, one stone.
But something happened as she continued to climb through the ranks at work.
By the sixth year, she could not be bothered to give a damn about the management and growth of a corporate company’s assets.
She began to have hysterically intrusive thoughts about investing her high-end clients’ assets in comical places like portable toilet stock.
One day, she woke up and realized the life she had wasn’t satisfying in the ways she wanted it to be.
She had been feeling the sterility of her life for a while.
Work, run, sleep, repeat. But she had convinced herself that was what she was supposed to do.
That the life she had was good and right, and what adults did.
It wasn’t supposed to be fun. It was being an adult. Fun was for when you were a kid.
Nothing in particular happened to change Ophelia’s mind about her life.
It was a gradual change, created by seemingly minor decisions.
She stopped buying clothes exclusively from Ann Taylor and found herself picking up unique pieces at vintage shops on the Lower East Side.
She bought a journal and actually wrote in it.
She booked more trips back home to New Orleans.
She left work at five p.m. every day, and she found herself looking at social work jobs on job sites.
Even the food she ate changed. She was so tired of chopped salads delivered to her door and opted to frequent the Union Square farmers’ market for recipe inspiration.
Ophelia felt more like herself with each decision. She had been stuck, and she slowly became unstuck until she was fully free and barreling toward her new life, which happened to include a beautiful cottage on Panola St. in New Orleans, minutes away from Jolie and Jade. This new life was good.