Josephine is cunning as hell and stubborn to match.I know just as well as Franz that she's not coming back through that door voluntarily.Wishing for shit to happen doesn't make it so, and I've been wishing for Josephine to stop running for five long years.
"Stay here," I mutter, pushing off the truck and heading toward the café."I'll handle it."
Franz snorts softly but doesn't argue.He knows better than to push me when I'm already on edge, and he's seen enough of my family's drama to know when to keep his opinions to himself.
The second I step into the café, my instincts flare like a warning signal.The room is packed with the usual Sunday afternoon crowd—tourists comparing guidebooks over café au lait, locals reading the Times-Picayune, college students typing on laptops—but there's no sign of Josephine anywhere.
I would know if she was here.I could feel her presence like electricity in the air.
I've always been able to feel her, even when I was trying not to.
I stride past the tables toward the counter, scanning the room methodically.A young barista with purple hair and multiple piercings eyes me nervously, her hands stilling mid-wipe on the espresso machine as she takes in my formal attire and obvious agitation.
"Have you seen a woman in a wedding dress?"
"A what?"
"Never mind.Bathroom this way?"I ask sharply, jerking my thumb toward the back of the café.
She points down a narrow hall lined with vintage New Orleans photographs."Last door on the left."
I don't bother thanking her.I'm already moving, my dress shoes clicking against the worn wooden floors.
The door to the women's bathroom is cracked open, and I can see immediately that it's empty.Of course, it is.Josephine is too smart to get trapped in a dead-end bathroom when she's planning an escape.
"Dammit, Jo," I mutter under my breath, pushing through the kitchen doors at the end of the hall without asking permission.
The smell of coffee beans and butter hits me as I navigate through the cramped kitchen space, ignoring the protests of the cook who's manning the grill.The back door is standing wide open, letting in humid air and the sound of traffic from the alley beyond.
She's gone.Again.
My chest tightens with frustration, but I force it down.This is just Josephine being Josephine, doing what she's always done when the walls start closing in.But I'm tired of this game, tired of watching her run from everything that matters.
I pull my phone from my pocket and call Franz."She's out the back," I say, keeping my voice low and controlled."Circle around.She couldn't have gotten far.She's hard to miss—pretty ass girl in a wedding dress and high tops."
"Yes, boss."
I hang up and start moving, my eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement in the narrow streets and alleyways that make up this part of the Quarter.The architecture here is old and layered, with hidden courtyards and secret passages that have been sheltering runaway lovers and escaping criminals for centuries.
She's predictable in her unpredictability, if that makes sense.She'll try to blend into the crowd, maybe duck into a shop or catch a cab.But she's wearing that dress—layers of white silk and lace that make her look like a runaway bride straight out of a romantic comedy.
I spot her before she spots me, which gives me the advantage I need.
She's darting across Royal Street, her dress dragging behind her like a ghost, her head whipping around as she checks for pursuers.She clutches her small satin purse in one hand like it contains everything she owns, her elaborate braids flying behind her as she moves.
I step into her path before she has a chance to notice me, cutting off her escape route with practiced ease.
"Josephine."
She skids to a halt, her breath hitching in surprise and what might be fear.
"Jesus, LaRoche!"she hisses, clutching her chest like I just gave her a heart attack."Do you enjoy stalking me, or is this just part of your job description now?"
I take a step closer, blocking her only remaining escape route.The tourists flowing around us give us curious looks but keep moving—New Orleans has seen stranger things than a bride and groom having a public argument.
"Do you enjoy making my life harder, or is that just part of your new persona as Naomi?"
Her eyes narrow, but I don't miss the way her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breath coming fast from exertion and adrenaline.
