Besides, there’s a call I need to make. One I’ve been putting off. One I fucking hate.
I don’t enjoy disappointing clients.
I take out my phone and choose his contact.
One ring, two, before he answers. “Is it done?”
“No, he didn’t show.”
Silence follows. Then a breath. Sharp, like it’s scraping past clenched teeth. I don’t blame him. I want the fucker dead, too. But not fast. I want his fear. I want him cornered and unraveling. I want him to feel the clock ticking down, second by second, while he begs a God that isn’t listening.
“You’re not calling it off?” Holloway asks.
“Not a chance. This is just a delay. He’s still mine.”
“I need you to make him suffer,” Holloway growls, his voice cracking under the weight of what he’s lost. “No bullet to the head. No mercy. I want him screaming. On his knees. I want him to know why he’s dying.”
I picture his daughter, Lila. A life cut short before she ever had a chance to live. I didn’t know her. Never heard her voice. But I know what it means when a light gets snuffed out by something cruel and selfish.
“I’ll strip him down to the bone. Make him bleed. Make him sob. And when he begs, I’ll make sure it gets worse.”
A pause.
Then Holloway’s voice is flat and empty. “Make it slow. For Lila.”
“Pain has a language. I’ll make him fluent.”
We end the call.
I can’t give Holloway his daughter back. But I can give him closure in pieces, one scream at a time.
I walk down the street. The Garden District lies hushed at this hour except for a streetcar humming somewhere in the distance.
Her mailbox stands at the curb. Black iron in a fleur-de-lis design.
I don’t get anywhere near the house. Not yet. Cameras are tucked into the balconies, disguised as decorative fixtures. Motion lights crouch low behind the ivy, angled to catch movement without announcing themselves. To anyone else, it’s just a pretty old place with good lighting.
To me, it’s an obstacle course. I note the dead zones, the overlapping fields of view, and gaps in coverage. She’s cautious enough to keep the careless and curious from slipping through unseen.
But security always tells a story, and this one has breaches.
She’s clever.
Just not clever enough.
I ease the mailbox open. Silence. No squeak of metal, no telltale click. Just the soft whisper of the door settling into place.
Inside, a neat stack of mail rests undisturbed. I reach in, fingertips gliding across smooth envelopes and glossy flyers, then pause at the soft give of a plastic mailer tucked beneath the rest.
I slip one envelope out, angling it toward the streetlight until the name comes into view.
Ah.Laurette Devereux.
I murmur her name under my breath and take a photo of the mail.
Then I slide the envelope back into place, tucking it into the stack as it was.
From my pocket, I pull the napkin I took from Leviathan, the one I palmed off her table on my way out when no one was looking. Still creased, still smelling of spilled bourbon.
