Me
I’ll try not to make any terrible decisions until then.
Yasmine
What terrible decisions.
I swear to God, if you don’t answer me, I’m going to kill you myself.
What terrible decisions?!?!?!?!
Just for this disrespect, I fully support your husband getting your name tattooed on his hands.
Count your hours, Catriona Deirdre O’Connor (that’s right, full government name)
My phone buzzes in my pocket with texts from a thoroughly annoyed Yasmine, and I try to pull it out to text her back so she doesn’t worry, but I’m interrupted by a brusque masculine voice.
“Catriona.”
I whirl around, heart hammering, and find Mr. Broussard leaning out of the window of a nondescript beige sedan. The locks click, spurring me into action, and I skirt around the car before folding into the passenger seat.
“Thank you for picking me up, Mr. Broussard. I realize this is highly irregular.”
“No need to thank me, this is nowhere near the most bizarre thing I’ve done this week, let alone in my career. Where to? The same place?”
I shift uncomfortably. It may be irrational, but I’ve become even more paranoid about someone spotting me out in public while I’m chasing down information about my mother. It had been bad after her death when my father was so concerned about our public image, but with how entangled O’Connor is with my father’s gambling debts, I highly doubt he’ll want me doing the same thing, and I can’t risk it.
“Is there somewhere more private we can go?”
Broussard shifts the car into gear, strokes his mustache, then says, “Sure, I know a place.”
He fills the silence with small talk about my classes and interesting tidbits about cases he’s worked on. I wonder idly as he navigates the streets to a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city if he has a family. Or does he keep a job with varied hours to fill the time because he doesn’t have a regular one? When I was younger, I used to wish I had a father with Mr. Broussard’s disposition. Someone steady, dependable, and trustworthy. Though I would have settled for a kind man.
He pulls the car into the driveway of one of several identical cottages. They’re spaced far enough apart that I’m not worried about privacy. And I’m kind of curious what the inside of his house looks like. It’s almost like getting a peek at the inner workings of his brain.
“Is this where you live?” I ask.
“Yes. I hope that’s alright.”
“Of course. I’m sorry for intruding.”
“Not at all. This will make it easier to demonstrate what I’ve found so far. I keep all of my equipment in my office.”
Broussard leads me into his home, shrugging out of his patched suit jacket and hanging it on a honey-colored pine hall tree. Photos fill the space, though they’re covered in a light layer of dust. The room is well-loved but neglected. I know then, without asking, that he must have lost his wife at some point. There’s a woman’s touch to the decor, the attention to pictures, especially, that screams he was married and that he loved her desperately, if the adoration in his eyes in each image is any indication.
He gestures to a hallway lined with more family photos. “My office is the first door on the right. I’ll get us some sweet tea, or I have water or soda if you prefer.”
Touched by this insight into his life, I smile warmly. “Sweet tea would be perfect.”
The pictures in the hall don’t show any children, so it’s just Mr. Broussard. His wife was a slight woman with a floof of white hair and a luminous smile. They seemed so happy. My heart squeezes in my chest at the thought of him being alone. At how different his marriage must have been compared to my parents’.
I huff a laugh. Or even mine.
“Here we are, Catriona.” He hands me a glass of sweet tea with a wedge of lemon on the rim and a glass straw.
“Thank you so much.”
Gesturing, he says, “Please, take a seat. I’ll pull up what I’ve found since our last conversation. I’m afraid it isn’t good news.”
