Page 36

Does she see it? Me?

“You said your name is Carly?”

“Yes. Carly James.”

Rubbing her thumb over the palm she held to my shoulder, she nods and turns away from me. “Mais la, you remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Carly’s a pretty common name.”

“It’s not the name, chère.” She stares down toward her palm, still running her thumb across the surface. “I’ll be back with that burger.”

The moment she strides out of the room, I find a seat next to Marcelle. “Can I ask a favor? I just want to look something up real quick. I left my phone in the car.”

“Sure,” she says, passing me her phone, and there’s no doubt in my mind the woman is high, because who willy-nilly gives up their phone without that split second of hesitation?

The background is a cute picture of Justin in his big coke bottle glasses, holding up a crawfish. I click on the Google app and search for a local campground, with amenities nearby where I can shower, a routine that’s not exactly new to me, as Russ and I did it a number of times before settling in Marquette. Just up the street from the old house is an RV park with showers and electricity, so I can charge my camera, too. Bonus. I enlarge the picture on the map to see that it’s fairly open, guarded only by one gate at the entrance. I could easily hop the perimeter fence, by the looks of it.

I exit the app and pause a moment, before clicking back in and typing ‘translate’ then ‘catin’ in the little box below the search bar.

Language detected: French.

Translation: Hooker.

The prick called me a hooker?

A hooker? Seriously?

Eyes narrowed, I quickly swipe out of the app and hand the phone back to Marcelle.

“Everything okay? You look like you wanna punch something.”

Hell, yes, I do. If I happen to run into Mr. Bedroom Eyes with the tight ass again, I might accidentally do just that.

“I’m fine. I just reaffirmed that men are assholes.”

“You’re telling me?”

“Your boss …. He’s the man dressed like it’s a funeral?”

Rolling her eyes, Marcelle goes back to scrolling through her phone. “Mmm-hmm. He’s an asshole, too.”

“Bad news, him.” A couple feet from us, a brunette dancer wearing a flesh-colored bodysuit, her hair pulled back from her face, leans in toward the mirror in front of her to apply artificial lashes. “But, mon Dieu! Dat boy would make some pretty babies.”

Can’t say I disagree, though I’m certainly not in the market for any kids. I had a feeling he was bad news. The guy has a naturally fiendish aura about him.

“He would,” Marcelle agrees. “Pretty demon babies that’d feed off human souls.”

Both women laugh in unison, and even I break a smile at that.

It’s twenty minutes before Brie returns with two bags, one of which she hands off to me, before shoving the other at her sister, while wearing a scowl.

With a flat smile, I nod. “Thank you for this, Brie. Much …” Much “Appreciated.”

“My pleasure. Thanks for helping out my family.” She holds out a hand, as if to offer a handshake, and when I set my hand there, she stares down at our clasped palms. “I just … I just can’t get over how much you remind me of someone. It’s uncanny to me.”

“This someone …. I remind you of her in a good way, or a bad way?”

“Good way. She was like a sister to me. But … you couldn’t be her.”