Chapter 2

The next morning, I stood in front of Emily's bathroom mirror and barely recognized myself.

The white contacts made my eyes look exactly like hers—cloudy, unfocused, dead. I practiced not blinking when I moved my hand in front of my face. It felt wrong.

I put on Emily's clothes. Gray hoodie, faded jeans, beat-up sneakers. She always dressed like she was trying to disappear. Meanwhile, I usually wore blazers and heels for teaching. The difference felt bigger than just fabric.

I was studying my reflection when someone knocked on the door.

My heart jumped. Marcus. Had to be.

I grabbed the white cane Emily had left and went to answer. The cane felt awkward in my hand, like holding someone else's crutch.

Marcus stood in the hallway. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark skin, expression completely neutral. He looked at me for a long moment. Too long. Did he know?

Then he pulled out his phone and typed something. A robotic voice came from the speaker: "Ready?"

Right. He was deaf. He used text-to-speech to communicate.

"Yeah," I said, trying to sound like Emily. Calmer than I felt.

He nodded once and turned to walk down the stairs. I followed, counting steps like Emily had taught me. Blind people counted everything.

The drive to the French Quarter was silent except for Mardi Gras music bleeding through the car windows. Marcus kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I stared out the window, making sure not to track passing cars too obviously.

Did he suspect? Or was I just paranoid?

We parked near Jackson Square. The streets were already packed. People in costumes everywhere—feathers, sequins, masks shaped like demons and angels. Beads hung from balconies and streetlights. The air smelled like beer and fried food and sweat.

Marcus took my arm and guided me through the crowd.

The blind community group was gathering near St. Louis Cathedral. Maybe twenty people, all wearing matching purple shirts that said "Eyes of the Heart - Mardi Gras 2024." Most had white canes. A few had guide dogs. They were laughing, talking, completely at ease.

I felt like a fraud.

An older white man with kind eyes came over. He wore a priest's collar under his purple shirt.

"Emily! So glad you could make it." He shook my hand. "Marcus taking good care of you?"

"Always," I said.

Father Tom smiled. "Wonderful. We'll be starting soon. Stay close to your group."

I nodded and let Marcus pull me aside. We stood near the cathedral steps while the crowd organized itself into a parade line.

That's when I saw him.

A thin man in his forties, sitting on a folding chair at the edge of the square. He had a small electric keyboard set up, playing jazz badly. Tourist stuff. A white cane leaned against his chair. Dark sunglasses. One of those coin cups in front of him.

Street performer. Blind street performer.

He wasn't looking at me. Obviously. But something about the way he sat there, perfectly positioned to "hear" our group, made my skin crawl.

Marcus's phone buzzed. He checked it, frowned, typed something back.

The parade started moving. Floats rolled down the street, music blasting from speakers. People on balconies threw beads. The crowd surged forward, carrying us along.

Marcus kept his hand on my elbow, steering me through the chaos. I swept my cane back and forth, trying to look natural. Don't look at faces. Don't react to the floats. Just listen and move.

The noise was overwhelming. Drums, trumpets, people screaming for beads, glass breaking somewhere. How did actual blind people handle this?

We'd been walking for maybe ten minutes when Marcus suddenly stopped.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

He didn't answer. His hand tightened on my arm. Then loosened.

Then let go completely.

Suddenly, I heard a sound. Not loud. Just a pop, like a firecracker. But wrong. Wet.

Marcus made a choking noise.

Then he fell.

My instinct was to look down, to catch him, to scream. But I forced myself to just stand there, cane in hand, head turning like I was trying to figure out what happened through sound alone.

"Marcus?" I said. Louder. "Marcus, are you okay?"

I crouched down, hands reaching out like a blind person would. Searching. My fingers touched fabric. Then something warm and sticky.

Blood!!!

So much blood!!!

It was soaking through his shirt, pooling on the pavement. My hand found the hole in his chest. Felt the blood pumping out with each heartbeat.

He was dying right in front of me.

People walked past, laughing. Someone stepped over Marcus like he was a drunk passed out. A woman in a devil mask looked down and said, "Damn, that costume's realistic."

They thought it was fake. Part of the show.

"Help!" I shouted. "Someone help! He's hurt!"

But my voice disappeared into the music. Nobody stopped. Nobody cared.

I wanted to check his pulse, to do CPR, to call 911. But a blind person wouldn't know about the blood. Wouldn't immediately know it was a gunshot wound. They'd be confused, scared, trying to understand through touch alone.

So I stayed crouched there, hands covered in Marcus's blood, not looking at his face. Not looking at his eyes, which were open and staring at nothing.

That's when I felt it.

Someone watching me.

Not just watching. Studying.

I forced myself to keep my eyes unfocused. Staring past Marcus's body at nothing. My heart was slamming against my ribs. Blood on my hands. A dead man at my feet. And someone out there testing whether I could see.

Don't look. Don't blink. Don't give yourself away.

The music pounded. Beads flew through the air. The crowd kept moving.

A hand touched my shoulder.

"I'll help you. Come with me."