For Whitney.
For myself.
For the truth, whatever shape it finally takes.
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, curlingstrips 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 redsand 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.
