Chapter 5 #2
We thread through the French Quarter, past artists with their work on display, canvases propped along wrought-iron fences, colors bleeding beneath the glow of gas lamps.
Tarot readers hunch beneath flickering lights; couples sway in alleys as if no one can see.
The smell of beignets lingers in the air.
Then the noise thins, and the streets stretch wider. The city shifts.
We leave behind the neon and grit for something older. Live oaks line the road, their limbs tangled overhead like ribs. The houses are grand and silent behind iron fences.
She’s not heading to a downtown high-rise or a shared walk-up or a weekend rental.
Home is the Garden District.
Her house is a Southern Gothic dream. White, with black shutters and lace-like wrought-iron balconies that twist up into the night. Two stories high, with arched windows and white columns softened by time. Ivy claws at the walls, creeping toward the eaves, trying to claim the house for itself.
I park in front of a house down the street, engine and lights off. I wait and watch.
Laurette steps out of the rideshare and climbs the front steps. The flickering porch lanterns catch the curve of her shoulder as she reaches for her keys. She unlocks the door and slips inside without a backward glance, the door closing behind her.
One light clicks on. Then another. Warm pools of gold spill through old glass, soft and distorted. The curtains obscure her movements, but she’s inside, moving from room to room—switching lights on, then off again.
A few minutes later, the house goes dark, one window at a time swallowed by shadow until nothing is left but stillness.
I wait while she settles in for the night. I have no interest in being seen or getting caught.
Besides, there’s a call I need to make. One I’ve been putting off. One I fucking hate.
I don’t enjoy disappointing clients.
I take out my phone and choose his contact.
One ring, two, before he answers. “Is it done?”
“No, he didn’t show.”
Silence follows. Then a breath. Sharp, like it’s scraping past clenched teeth. I don’t blame him. I want the fucker dead, too. But not fast. I want his fear. I want him cornered and unraveling. I want him to feel the clock ticking down, second by second, while he begs a God that isn’t listening.
“You’re not calling it off?” Holloway asks.
“Not a chance. This is just a delay. He’s still mine.”
“I need you to make him suffer,” Holloway growls, his voice cracking under the weight of what he’s lost. “No bullet to the head. No mercy. I want him screaming. On his knees. I want him to know why he’s dying.”
I picture his daughter, Lila. A life cut short before she ever had a chance to live. I didn’t know her. Never heard her voice. But I know what it means when a light gets snuffed out by something cruel and selfish.
“I’ll strip him down to the bone. Make him bleed. Make him sob. And when he begs, I’ll make sure it gets worse.”
A pause.
Then Holloway’s voice is flat and empty. “Make it slow. For Lila.”
“Pain has a language. I’ll make him fluent.”
We end the call.
I can’t give Holloway his daughter back. But I can give him closure in pieces, one scream at a time.
I walk down the street. The Garden District lies hushed at this hour except for a streetcar humming somewhere in the distance.
Her mailbox stands at the curb. Black iron in a fleur-de-lis design.
I don’t get anywhere near the house. Not yet. Cameras are tucked into the balconies, disguised as decorative fixtures. Motion lights crouch low behind the ivy, angled to catch movement without announcing themselves. To anyone else, it’s just a pretty old place with good lighting.
To me, it’s an obstacle course. I note the dead zones, the overlapping fields of view, and gaps in coverage. She’s cautious enough to keep the careless and curious from slipping through unseen.
But security always tells a story, and this one has breaches.
She’s clever.
Just not clever enough.
I ease the mailbox open. Silence. No squeak of metal, no telltale click. Just the soft whisper of the door settling into place.
Inside, a neat stack of mail rests undisturbed. I reach in, fingertips gliding across smooth envelopes and glossy flyers, then pause at the soft give of a plastic mailer tucked beneath the rest.
I slip one envelope out, angling it toward the streetlight until the name comes into view.
Ah. Laurette Devereux.
I murmur her name under my breath and take a photo of the mail.
Then I slide the envelope back into place, tucking it into the stack as it was.
From my pocket, I pull the napkin I took from Leviathan, the one I palmed off her table on my way out when no one was looking. Still creased, still smelling of spilled bourbon.
I smooth it across my palm, flip it to the blank underside, and scrawl a message in ink that bites.
Careful what you wish for, Laurette.
You have my attention.
—B
I slide the napkin into the mailbox, setting it on top of her mail. She’ll find it tomorrow and know it came from someone who was at Leviathan tonight. Someone who heard every word.
Someone ready to answer her plea.
And she’ll wonder who I am.
I glance up at her darkened windows.
“Get ready, Laurette Devereux. The chase has begun.”