“Thanks,” I say quietly.
He pulls a dark cloth from his pocket and holds it up. “This is only until we get there.”
I nod again. When he slips it over my head, his fingers brush my cheek. The contact is brief, controlled, and more careful than necessary.
“You ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
His hand settles on my shoulder as he guides me forward. The pressure is light, directional. Not a shove. Not a grip.
Under the hood, the world reduces to motion and sound. The pressure of his hand shifts to steer me where he wants me.
The air shifts as we move outside. Cool at first, then warmer as the car door opens and shuts. The engine turns over. Tires crunch against gravel, then smooth out.
Time stretches and compresses in uneven bursts. Without sight, motion loses its order.
I count turns by the sway of my body, the rise and fall of speed. The road hums beneath us, steady and familiar in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.
I can sense it before I see it. The rhythm changes, and there’s more noise, more movement. The city closes in around us.
He reaches over and pulls the cloth free.
I blink, lowering my gaze while my eyes adjust to the light. Neon bleeds into view. Traffic. Brick and iron and motion.
New Orleans.
We pass through the Garden District, past towering homes and curling iron balconies, before turning onto a quieter street lined with gnarled oaks.
Then I see a mansion rise behind iron gates, dark and imposing, unmistakable even at a distance.
I recognize it immediately. The Creston House.
I look at him. “You’re keeping me here?”
He glances over, expression unreadable. “One of our holdings.”
“Your family owns this place?” I glance back at the house as we slow near the gate. “You’re telling me you own one of the most infamous properties in the city.”
“It’s useful,” he says. “You can conduct a lot of business in plain sight when no one thinks to look twice.”
I let out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. “So it’s a haunted house and a convenient cover.”
“Something like that.”
The gates slide open, and he pulls around to a shadowed side entrance.
“People expect secrets to be buried far from the city,” he adds. “This is the last place anyone thinks to look.”
I don’t miss what he means.
The house looms as we pull closer, all dark windows and ironwork, unmistakable even behind the gate.
I know this place.
“I did a paper on this house once,” I say slowly. “Local history elective. Nineteenth century. Supposedly cursed.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t believe in ghosts. At least the kind people talk about.”
