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His lips press into a grin. “That, my dear, was your very own special gift. Finding him in a place like that… There’s no accounting for it.”
“I got lucky.”
“You’ve been lucky more than once.” He stands, sliding the papers together and zipping them into the leather portfolio where he stores them. “You have a pure heart, and you’re generous. It earns you good karma.”
Wrinkling
my nose, I stand and follow him out of the bar. “I don’t think I believe in that.”
“Whether you believe it or not, it’s the truth.”
The cool night is not as damp, and the clouds have drifted away. The moon is a fingernail, and I slip my hand into the crook of Roland’s arm as we walk to his house.
“As long as it holds out just a little bit longer,” I say, wishing on those stars blinking to life high above the city. Let him be home…
“You don’t need luck anymore.”
“Don’t we always need luck?”
“Not this time. This time justice will balance out the darkness and the crimes those men did here. You’re not acting on your own. You’re simply the tool bringing order back into the universe.
Our heels click on the pavement, and I fight the urge to run ahead. I think about the night he saved me from my crime. So much has changed, but so much feels the same.
Finally, we’re at his house, and he holds the short black gate for me. I dash through it, crossing the tiny lawn quickly.
“Slow down before you trip,” he chuckles.
Pausing at the front porch, I place my hand on my chest, calming my breathing. “Sorry, I feel like old ghosts are chasing me tonight.”
Our eyes meet in the darkness, and his teeth glow as his smiles. “We’ve beaten those ghosts before.”
“It seems like they have a way of coming back. Like being trapped in a horror movie.”
He shakes his head. “You need to pack.”
I run up the steps. Mark said he would be here when I got home.
Reaching for the doorknob, my breath stills…
* * *
Mark
The waning moon casts long shadows around the house on Alix Street. A white picket fence lines the yard, and a short crepe myrtle tree stretches in front of one window. It looks too normal, too nice for the thug I’m trying to find.
I park Roland’s car around the corner, partially hidden near a small grocery store and step out into the damp night air. It’s almost eleven, so the store is closed. The smell of the river hangs in the air, tangy mud and fish mixed with exhaust from the barges.
Slipping the key in my pocket, I walk the half-block to the house. The exterior is cypress painted a deep orange color. The trim is dark green, and it looks trendy, designer. It’s unexpected a crooked cop like Landry would have an artistic sensibility. You just never know with these guys.
Large round crates hold small, white flowers on each side of the steps leading to the porch. I take the short flight of concrete stairs and stop at the front door.
On the drive here, I decided to change my approach from full-on attack to something more contrite. If I want answers, if I ever want to get that thumb drive or get close enough to destroy it, I have to play it cool, act casual.
This is going to be hard.
Two short knocks, and I hear his gravelly bark on the other side. “Who’s there?”
Adrenaline spikes in my veins, but I rein it in. “Reese Landry? It’s Mark Fitzhugh.” A shadow passes over the window, and I step back so the streetlight can hit my face. “Remember me?”
