Page 72 of Phantom
The officer shakes her head. “Nope. When we tried to interview her, she clammed up. We never did find the murderer, but with her father’s criminal history, we figured it was rivalry based.” She gives me a pointed look. “The vic was in a lot of gambling debt. He owed someone money and that’s how he paid for it… We thought it was the Phantom of the French Quarter at first.”
Gambling debt? Was all this just over money?
I keep my face blank as I point out what should be obvious. “Out in the open isn’t the Phantom’s style.”
The officer shrugs. “That’s also why it’s a cold case. It was just speculation around the precinct, but believe me, if my guys could’ve pinned it on him, they would’ve.”
And that’s why I don’t go into the Garden District anymore. Fucking Chatelains…
“The whole thing was messy with a lot of weird missing pieces,” she continues. “The vic had gunshot residue on his hands, but the weapon was nowhere to be found. The suspect dropped his gun before fleeing, but there were no fingerprints.”
There wouldn’t be. He’d burned them off.
“Did the girl ever ask you for updates?”
“She did for a while, but I think she gave up. Due to her father’s debts, she was kicked out of rental housing. I heard she got a scholarship to attend her senior year of school since her father wasn’t paying for it anymore. Last I heard, the poor thing went crazy over all of it.”
My fists clench. “She’s notcrazy.”
She holds up her hands in innocence. “Whatever you want to call it. Not many people are hospitalized for beingsane. Is she what this is all about? Do you know her or something?”
“That’s enough,” I answer. “As always, discretion is paramount.”
She straightens at my dismissal. “Of course. If you, uh, need anything else about the case, let Sabine know.”
I nod, but don’t reply further, leaving her on the balcony. Instead of going back into the street, I take the stairwell all the way down to a trapdoor at the base of the stairs.
Going above ground occasionally is vital so that my shadows can see me out and about. It’s easier to trust their boss is watching over them and has their back if they physically see him every now and then. But I’ve done my duty for the night and I don’t need to stay topside on the way back. Without the Bourbon Street traffic, I cover the two blocks quickly and return to my home faster than it took to leave.
When I quietly open the door, slip inside, and lock it behind me, I’m met with complete silence. I gingerly unholster my gun and hide it in the entryway table’s drawer. My heart races faster and faster as I tiptoe to my bedroom, but it calms completely when I see Scarlett sleeping peacefully. Before I sink into bed beside her, I go to the hallway bathroom and hop in to take another shower.
I spot clean around my mask the best I can so I don’t have to reapply the adhesive. But I thoroughly scrub off the outside world everywhere else on my body.
Once I dry off, I put on a different black, long-sleeve T-shirt and the same silk pants I wore earlier and exchange my painted eye prosthetic for a clear one. The navy color is the most realistic one I have, but it’s also my oldest so when I wear it for too long it makes my eye socket ache, and I haven’t switched it out since I retrieved Scarlett from her dorm. I’ll have to wake up early to swap it out again so Scarlett won’t be subjected to it, but I don’t mind. I’ll do anything to make sure she’s never horrified by me.
I’m about to go to bed when my eyes catch on the Mardi beads on the bathroom floor. With a mischievous smirk quirking the left side of my mouth, I wipe them down in the sink, too.
I go to my living room, closing all the doors behind me so I can do some “home improvements” that I can’t wait to try out with Scarlett. Once I’ve finished, I call it a night and head to my room.
The brisk chill of my apartment filters through my long sleeves, hitting my still-damp scars on my back and arm. I quickly slide underneath the covers behind Scarlett to get warm. Her soft disgruntled groan makes me have to hide my chuckle, but the relieved sigh that escapes her once she’s nestled in my arms has my chest tightening to the point of pain.
As long as she sleeps, I’ll be happy, but I probably won’t get a wink.
My mind is humming with theories. I’m dying to read and watch those files immediately, to learn the truth of what happened the night that changed Scarlett’s life and destined her to be in mine. But the truth will have to wait while I savor this fantasy, one where I have Scarlett safe and sound, protected in my arms, just like this, forever. It’s a dream I wouldn’t mind never waking from.
Scene 18
OPEN YOUR EYES
Scarlett
My eyes snap open, but I don’t know why.
There’s no alarm, but I’m still wide awake at—I roll over and move the white roses aside to see the clock on the bedside table—sixa.m. I stifle a groan and rub my weary eyes. The last time I woke up this early voluntarily was probably when I was an infant and I feel like whining like one right now. We didn’t go to bed too late, so I had a reasonable amount of rest. Still, a tempting part of me wants to roll over and go back to sleep, but another is already trying to figure out what woke me.
I sit up to take stock of my surroundings—trying to find what tripped that wire in my brain—when it hits me.
That seductive Sazerac scent still embraces me, but its owner is nowhere to be found. And the piano music I’ve craved over the past year is playing, but barely audible, as if Sol’s trying to keep quiet.
