“You were really helpful,” I told Allison. “You’re a research queen.”
“Glad to help. Maybe I should crash galas more often.”
Neither of us laughed at the joke.
Nineteen
It started raining around four, the soft, steady kind that New Orleans got in the spring, more mist than storm. By six it had knocked half the magnolia blossoms clean off the tree in the side yard. I stood at the kitchen window and watched them come down, fat white petals bruising to brown the second they hit the wet grass, and thought that was probably some kind of metaphor.
For what, I had no idea.
Midnight House was quiet in the particular way it got after something enormous had happened in it. Not empty, exactly. Just decompressed. Taylor's flight had left at four, and he'd texted from the gate to say he'd already been recognized by a stranger in the Southwest terminal as "the bourbon guy from that murder thing," which he seemed to consider a career highlight rather than a violation of at least three of his lawyer's instructions.
Vivienne had packed up an hour after the arrest, quiet and efficient, camera bag zipped, and paused at the door long enough to tell me she was pulling all the gala footage from her documentary cut.
"Evelyn wanted final approval on everything," she'd said. "She's not here to give it. Feels wrong to use any of it without her say-so, even now. Especially now."
I hadn't expected that from her, the woman who'd filmed a murder confession from her own lap without blinking, and I'd told her so.
"I film everything," she said. "Doesn't mean I use everything. Some stories belong to the people who lived them.” Then she'd knelt down and scratched behind Teddy's ears, told him he'd been the most reliable interview subject of the entire production, and left in a compact little rental car that pulled out just as the rain started.
Allison was still upstairs, ostensibly packing, though every time I passed Room Four the door was cracked and I could hear her narrating something to her phone in a hushed, thrilled voice that did not sound like a woman in a hurry to leave. I didn't have the heart to rush her. She'd earned her material fair and square, secret society comment and all.
She did pop her head out at one point and said, “I need to share this with someone.”
“What’s that?”
“The cease and desist has no legal weight anymore without Evelyn. And my publisher moved my deadline back. It feels horrible to feel relieved, and yet I do. The book is back on track.”
I was happy for her. “Two things can exist at the same time. You can feel bad about Evelyn and relieved for yourself. You’ve put a lot of time into this book.”
“Thanks, Harper. You’re a good egg.”
My own phone buzzed on the counter. Patrick.
Saw it all over the local news. You okay?
I looked at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, Teddy watching me from his spot on the kitchen chair like he had opinions on the matter. He probably did.
I’m okay, thanks.
Want to meet up for a drink later?
I didn’t. Not tonight. Not ever. No sense in stringing Patrick along.
I don’t think so. I think I might have feelings for someone else and I don’t want to be like that with you.
Three dots, then a text.
Understandable. Take care of yourself, Harper.
I appreciated that he was cool about it. But at the same time, he had given up really easily. It told me I’d made the right decision. I set the phone face-down on the counter and went back to watching the rain.
The back door opened without a knock, the way it always did, and Hollis came in shaking water off his jacket like a dog.
"You could use an umbrella," I said. "They sell them at actual stores."
"I could." He hung the jacket on the hook by the door, the one that had unofficially become his over the past year, and reached for a mug without asking, the way he always did. "Statement's filed. DA's talking felony murder and attempted murder both, plus assault for what he did to Hyacinth. He's not getting bail."
