Chapter 3

The voice was male. French accent. Calm, like finding bodies at Mardi Gras was completely normal.

"Who are you?" I asked, not moving from my crouch beside Marcus.

"A friend. Marcus had an accident. I'll take you somewhere safe."

Accident. Right. Because people accidentally get shot in the chest.

His hand gripped my elbow, pulling me up. Firm. Not rough, but not gentle either.

I should run. Scream. Do literally anything except follow this stranger. But what choice did I have? If I broke character now, whoever shot Marcus would know I wasn't blind. And I'd probably be next.

"Okay," I said.

He led me through the crowd, his hand never leaving my arm. I used my cane, tapping it against the ground, stumbling like I couldn't see where I was going. Inside, my mind was racing.

Police sirens wailed somewhere behind us. Someone had finally called 911. Too late for Marcus.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Your shop. Emily's massage parlor. You'll be safe there."

My stomach dropped. Emily's shop. Why there? Why not her apartment, or a hospital, or literally anywhere else?

"I don't—"

"It's close," he said. "Just a few blocks."

We walked for what felt like forever but was probably only ten minutes. The Mardi Gras noise faded behind us. The streets got quieter, narrower. Old buildings pressed in on both sides.

He stopped in front of a weathered door. Green paint peeling off. Number 47 in tarnished brass.

"Up the stairs," he said.

The stairs were steep and wooden, groaning under our weight. Each step felt like walking deeper into a trap. At the top, he pushed open another door.

The smell hit me first. Lavender oil. Incense. That weird herbal scent Emily always had on her clothes.

"This is your shop, right?" he said.

I nodded, pretending to feel my way inside. Small reception area. Two doors leading to massage rooms. Everything neat and organized, just like Emily's apartment.

The man walked to the window and peered through the shutters. A sliver of light cut across his face.

I accidentally turned my head toward him, letting my unfocused eyes pass over his features. Thin. Maybe mid-forties. Dark hair going gray. Weathered skin. He wore street performer clothes—faded jeans, loose shirt, suspenders.

The piano player from the square.

"Thank you for helping me," I said, keeping my voice steady. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Damien." He didn't look away from the window. "I'm a friend of Emily's."

Liar. Emily never mentioned anyone named Damien. And friends didn't usually show up right after your husband got murdered.

"Is Marcus okay?" I asked.

"I don't know." Still watching the street. "But you're safe now."

Safe. Sure. That's why my hands were still shaking. Why Marcus's blood was drying on my fingers.

I heard something from the back of the shop. A door opening.

Footsteps.

Damien turned, not surprised. Like he'd been expecting it.

A girl walked out of the back office. Young, maybe twenty-one. Blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Thin to the point of looking sick. She wore ripped jeans and a tank top that showed needle tracks on her arms.

She saw me and froze.

Then her hands started moving. Sign language.

My heart jumped. I taught ASL at Tulane. I knew every sign, every gesture. But I couldn't let them know that.

Damien's hands moved in response. They were having a full conversation right in front of me.

The girl signed: "This is Emily?"

Damien: "Yes."

Girl: "Are you sure? She looks—"

Damien: "I tested her at the parade. She's blind."

Girl: "Where's Marcus?"

Damien: "Dead. It's done."

My blood turned to ice.

It's done. Like they'd planned it. Like Marcus was always supposed to die today.

The girl's hands trembled as she signed: "Did you find it?"

Damien: "No. I searched everywhere. It's not here."

Girl: "Then it must be on her."

They both turned to look at me.

I forced myself to stay calm. To not react.

"Is someone there?" I asked, turning my head toward the sound of their movement. "I heard footsteps."

"My friend Chloe," Damien said. "She's deaf, so she can't answer you."

"Oh. Hi, Chloe." I waved vaguely in the wrong direction.

Chloe lifted her hand in a small wave. I didn't react.

Damien walked across the room. I heard the front door lock click.

"Why are you locking the door?" I asked.

"For your safety," he said. "The people who hurt Marcus might come looking."

Bullshit. He was the one who hurt Marcus. Or at least, he was part of it.

But I nodded. "Thank you."

Chloe started searching the shop. I heard her opening drawers, moving furniture, checking behind picture frames. She was looking for something specific.

Damien watched me the whole time. Testing. Always testing.