Page 1 of Little Death
CHAPTERONE
The house glitters, filled with life, but all I see when I take it in is death.
It’s the night before Halloween and I’m too old to be afraid of the dark, but that doesn’t stop the hair at my nape from prickling as I move through the shadows to my destination. Too many horror movie marathons in the past several weeks have gotten to me. The screaming. The blood. My nightmares have been running rampant, and not even the sleeping pills my doctor prescribed are touching it.
So much for exposure therapy.
Freezing on the steps outside, as I look up at the grand facade of dusty-blue French Provincial double doors, I’m both comforted and disquieted by its familiarity. Wondering if this is the moment when a rational voice will save me from what I’m about to do. It’s nothing like I’d imagine the gates of hell would resemble, but it sure feels like I’m about to walk into the devil’s lair.
A humid October breeze, thick with the scent of sweet olive trees and spicy purple dianthus, whips around my freshly waxed legs and teases my nose. As I hesitate one moment longer, the rational voice in my head is glaringly absent. I’m alone, and the only voices present are those raised in drunken laughter, carried on the night air from the roaring party in the expansive gardens behind the estate. The sense of unreality reminds me of a carnival, sending a blaze of apprehension over me.
I suppose rationality died that day six months ago, and no amount of wishing will bring it back. It sure as hell seems like the more I cling to the tenuous bits of control I used to have, the more they seem to evaporate straight from my grasp.
Gathering my nerves, I tuck them away behind a perfected veil of calm. I straighten my shoulders, then breathe in until my pulse stops jumping and my nervous stomach settles. The glittery gold mask covering most of my face helps. With it, no one recognizes me. No one can placate me with false condolences or suffocate me with their blatant curiosity. I can be anyone but me.
Anonymity is fleeting when you’re the daughter of a well known local figure, and more so when your beloved mother commits suicide with you in the very home standing in front of me.
I gulp, shoving those memories away and knocking on the door with more force than necessary. A young man with pleasantly nondescript features answers, the cacophony of music, laughter, and conversation swelling around him. “Welcome. May I have your invitation?” His black Venetian mask glints under the porch lights as I pass it over to his waiting hand.
A glance behind him as he studies the invitation reveals more discreet staff in matching black tuxedos, the women in sleek black dresses, each carrying silver trays of fizzing drinks andhors d’oeuvres. My stomach retches in protest at the sight of food, and I inhale through my mouth. The staggering, opulent setting no longer strikes me as beautiful and pristine the way it used to. Now all I see is the carnage behind its mask.
The man clears his throat, eyes glued to mine as though he doesn’t want to chance looking down. A spark of pleasure washes away my nerves, and I give myself a mental pat on the back for taking Yasmine’s advice and choosing this dress. The perfect distraction. It’s as short as sin, with a plunging V-neck and generous cut-outs at the sides and back that tease the dimples near my spine. Crafted in shimmering gold fringe at the bottom and a woven metallic gold at the bust, it matches my ornate gold and ceramic mask as though they were made for each other. It’s not my normal pink ensembles, but the less I look like my usual self, the better.
My breath catches in my chest as he scans the name, but he barely reads it before checking it against a list on a clipboard. “Thank you,” he says briskly, returning the invitation to me.Senator Rory Gallagher & Familyis written across the front in elegant gold calligraphy. I send my dear old dad a mental thanks. It’s the one and only time I’ve ever used his name to literally open doors for me.
“Have a lovely evening. The main gathering is through the living space and continues on the terrace and gardens for the charity games.”
I murmur my thanks as I step inside, but I’m not sure my voice is loud enough for him to hear over the music from the string quartet on the other side of the patio doors. Oxygen clogs in my throat as a lifetime’s worth of memories assault me the moment he closes us inside to await the next guest. It feels like home and, at the same time, wholly alien.
My gaze snaps to the grand curving staircase despite several pointed reminders on the way up here to stop myself from doing exactly that. But it’s like I don’t have control over my body. The entryway used to be my favorite part of the estate. The staircase, dominating most of the room, is a glorious feat of engineering, sweeping in a circle overhead and accented by scrolling, handcrafted ironwork.
After the night when I found my mother at the bottom, her body twisted into a gruesome knot and steeped in blood, the sight of those stairs makes my stomach heave all over again.
Focus, Catriona.
I give myself a little shake, as though it’ll cement resolve into my brain. I can’t afford to be distracted, not when this party is the only chance I may get to be in this house again. At the first opportunity, I ditch the invitation in one one of the trashcans placed strategically throughout the area. With a lump the size of a fist lodged in my throat, I smile beneath my mask and accept a glass of bubbling champagne from a passing server. The fizz dissolves my nerves, and I sip to have something to do with my hands while I study the surrounding faces. A buzz would help dispel the swelling apprehension hovering on the edges of my awareness.
My phone rings with a text from my oversized clutch. Squeezing between a potted plant and a man who doesn’t understand the concept of getting the hell out of someone’s way, I dig between a battery bank and condoms—Jesus Christ, Yasmine—for my phone. The man smiles from behind his devil mask when I’m forced to brush against him. I glare and let my champagne accidentally splash onto his Ralph Lauren suit.
“Oops,” I say flatly.
His muttered, “Bitch,” follows me as I stride through the entryway to the massive, open-concept formal living room, decorated in untouchable white furniture. I guess the new owner didn’t care to redecorate. Everything is almost exactly as we had left it. Even the lovingly restored Steinway Model O that had belonged to my mother’s father. Not that I knew him. All four of my grandparents were long since dead when I came into the picture. The ghost of a memory—my mother seated at the piano, plucking at the keys—threatens to rise to the surface of my thoughts, but I stifle it, turning away from the piano and opening my texts as soon as no one is around.
Yasmine: It’s been 32 minutes. You promised you’d check in every half hour. Are you still alive? Do I need to send an ambulance? Reinforcements?
Yasmine: I had rounds until midnight. I should be asleep rn instead of stalking your location. I’m adding endless margs to the list of shit you owe me for putting me through this.
By reinforcements, she means her older brother Reggie, who is a police officer with the New Orleans PD. The last thing I need is for her to call the cops, and she knows it. Reggie may not be my brother, but he wouldn’t hesitate to act like he was if Yasmine informed him about what I’m up to.
Me: I’m alive. Just got inside. I wish you were here
Yasmine: Oh, sure, because crashing a party thrown by NOLA’s newest multibillionaire sounds like a good time to me.
Yasmine, bless her heart, is a better person than I am. She’s also a much more trusting person than I am because she was raised by parents who believe in the premise of law and order. As lawyers, they have faith that our justice system, while flawed, will always do what’s best. Over the last six months, I’ve had the unfortunate experience of being introduced to a different justice system. One that doesn’t care about the facts, only closing cases. I don’t believe anyone has my mother’s best interests at heart. Especially since even those close to me—to her—aren’t willing to do what needs to be done to find the truth.
Me: The champagne is amazing
Yasmine: At least I know it’s really you and not someone posing as you to cover up your murder. Have you seen him yet?
