"Sure you are."She takes a bite."You should sleep more."
It’s perfect.Exactly something a real girlfriend would say—like someone who cares.
It’s almost too bad the setting, the food, and the woman I’m with are all for show.
That's the problem with good cover—sometimes you want to believe it.
Adena
Dinner ends with Jagger’s hand resting on the small of my back as he steers me out of Café Amelie.
The performance doesn't stop at the courtyard gate.It follows us down Royal Street, into the Audi, through every red light between the Quarter and the Garden District.
He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the center console, close enough that anyone looking would assume it's resting on my knee.
The streets narrow as we leave the Quarter behind.Gas lamps give way to streetlights, jazz fades into the hum of tires on pavement.The Garden District is quieter, wealthier—mansions behind iron gates, oak trees older than the city itself.
Jagger parks on Washington Avenue, kills the engine.Across the street, the cemetery rises behind a wrought-iron fence.White tombs glow under the streetlights, stacked like small houses in neat rows—above-ground burials.The water table here won't let you dig six feet down.
"Stay close," he says, stepping out.
I follow, my heels clicking on the sidewalk—not ideal footwear for a cemetery, but I couldn’t wear tactical boots for a romantic dinner.
Jagger doesn’t even slow down.He spots a section where the fence dips, tests it once, then swings himself over like the city planned this entrance just for him: one smooth motion, boots on gravel, no drama.He turns back and reaches for me, completely unfazed that I’m dressed for date night and he’s treating a cemetery like it’s his personal obstacle course.
"This is why I hate heels," I mutter.
I hand him my purse, hike up my dress slightly, and climb.The iron is cold under my hands, and my heels scrape against the bars, but I make it over without face-planting.He catches my waist as I drop, steadying me before stepping back.
The cemetery is a maze.Narrow paths wind between the tombs, some barely wide enough for one person.The structures loom on either side—family crypts with names worn smooth by time, iron crosses rusted green, stone angels missing fingers.Spanish moss hangs from the oak branches overhead, shifting in the breeze.Shadows pool in every corner.
It smells like old stone and damp earth.My heels crunch on the gravel.Every step echoes.
"This way."Jagger moves ahead, confident, like he's walked this path a hundred times.
We stop in front of a tomb near the center—simple, white stone darkened with age.No flowers.No recent offerings.Just a name carved into the marble:Tommy Guidry.1985–2015.
Jagger's voice drops lower."Bar fight in Treme—wrong guy, wrong night.I visit often, place flowers.I made a promise to his mom before she moved away."
I study the tomb, memorizing details.The chipped corner on the left.The way the surname is slightly larger than the first name.The small crack running diagonally across the date.
"What bar?"I ask.
"Doesn't matter.We keep it vague—Treme, late night, stupid fight over a woman.He caught a bottle to the head, died two days later in the hospital."
"How did we know him?"
"You met him through me.I knew him from...before.Old crew, nothing specific.Just a guy who was around.Good guy.Made bad choices."
“This is my first time seeing his grave?”
“Since the funeral.”
He's thought this through.Every detail, every answer.Three years of building cover stories on top of cover stories.
"Quiz time," he says, turning to face me."Who is he?"
"Tommy Guidry.Died ten years ago, bar fight in Treme.Thirty years old."
