Chapter one
Remy
“We’re going to keep landscapers in business for a while,” I tell my best friend.
He’s sitting beside me, staring out the windshield, fingers tapping a melody only he can hear against his thigh.
“It’s atmospheric,” he says, distracted.
“Are we looking at the same thing?” I ask. “An overgrown cemetery that hasn’t been kept up in years, right next to our…” I search for the word and land on it. “Project.”
He cuts me a look. Sharp. Certain. “It’s perfect. And we’re in New Orleans. People eat this kind of thing up.”
I pull the truck to a stop in front of the building. Gothic. Tall. Arched in a way that feels timeless, meant to pull the eye upward. If you could see straight through the ironwork, it would resemble a massive carousel frozen in place.
“That’s the realtor,” I say, nodding toward the nervous blonde hovering near the entrance. “Let’s go take a look. Try to sound disinterested so I can negotiate the price down.”
He’s already out of the truck.
I sigh and follow, taking in the space as I go. Atmospheric is one word for it. Creepy fits better. I already know we're buying it. He’s too focused for us to do anything else.
As soon as she sees us, the realtor pastes on a professional smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. A clang echoes from somewhere inside the building, sharp enough to make her jump.
I narrow my eyes. No one should be in there.
“Are you meeting anyone else here today?” I ask.
“No, Mr. Robichaux,” she says quickly. “Just you and Mr. Leroux.”
Erik, as usual, doesn’t notice her. Or pretends not to. I catch the way her gaze lingers on him anyway.
I shake my head and gesture toward the doors. “Lead the way.”
She fumbles with the heavy door, and Erik loses patience. He reaches past her, pulls it open, and steps inside, already angling toward the theater.
The realtor hustles after him, launching into a spiel. She’s trying to sound knowledgeable, but the way she trips over the words tells me she googled most of this on the drive over.
“Oh, you’re heading straight for the money maker,” she says, her voice lifting in an irritating little trill. “You’ll be happy to know they used the pro…” She glances at her phone. “Proscenium stage model. It’s very popular for opera houses.”
I hang back.
Yes, the seats bring in the money, but the walk to them has to work. I take in the space, already mapping traffic flow in my head. Bottlenecks. Sightlines. Where people will hesitate and where they’ll drift without thinking. The marble staircase is still intact. It just needs to be cleaned and polished.
She trails after Erik. I want the foyer. The refreshment areas. I want to see how much glass has been broken over the years and whether it was vandalism or just neglect.
I should’ve brought a mask. The dust is thick enough to taste, cobwebs cling to the corners, their ownership set up a long time ago.
I wave a hand in front of my face and keep moving.
Chapter two
Erik
I step into the theater and take in the faded opulence. I scan it and my breath hitches. It’s made to replicate the Opéra Palais Garnier, and with cleaning and detailing, it can be brought back.
I allow myself to be funneled down the aisle and move to the orchestra pit, then up onto the deck.
I am not seeing the dust. I am seeing what it will be.
