Fuck both of them.
They don’t matter. They don’t. They’re not why I’m here.
I force my attention back down to the bed.
A stack of letters sits near my knee, bound together with a rubber band like the ones wrapped around my wrist, only thicker. The paper is soft at the edges from being handled too many times.
Ash.
He said he knew my father. He’s been writing me for years. I press my thumb against the top letter, then let it go.
Next to it—my DCFS paperwork.
I don’t know why I still carry it. I’ve been out of the system for years, pulled out by Cal before it had the chance to swallow me whole.
But I remember the day he handed it to me like it just happened.
“This means you have a home with me now,” he’d said. “I’m not your dad. But I’ll protect you.”
His face had gone hard when he said it. It wasn’t performative. Not comforting. Just a promise. “No one’ll ever hurt you again.”
That was when I knew he understood what the system had already done. The papers have followed me ever since. Proof. A reminder. An anchor of sorts.
I glance over the rest.
Three T-shirts. Two pairs of jeans. Socks. Underwear.
One skater skirt I haven’t worn since high school but couldn’t leave behind.
My vibrator, because men fucking suck.
My Kindle, because a girl with a vibrator needs fairy porn.
A journal I barely write in. It’s filled with scribbles and verse and names and drawings and all manner of things that wouldn’t make a lot of sense to anyone other than me.
All of it laid out in front of me like some sad inventory of a life that’s supposed to mean something. I huff out a breath.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Real intimidating.”
Definitely nothing here screams badass contract-killer-hiring bitch. Which is a problem, because that’s exactly what I need to be.
It’s my third day in New Orleans, my third day waking up in this lovely establishment and then leaving to show up uninvited at Noir. I’m starting to feel like a stalker. I’m not sure I can even honestly claim to be looking for a job anymore. This has turned into less of a plan and more of a compulsion. Like if I stop showing up, whatever thin thread I’ve got to my past will snap, and I’ll be right back where I started—empty-handed and furious.
I shove everything back into my bag with more force than necessary and stand. Sitting here isn’t getting me anywhere.
Neither is waiting.
If Noir is the only thread I’ve got, then I’m not letting it snap because some asshole bartender told me no. I grab my keys and head out.
I don’t go straight there. Noir doesn’t open for another hour or so. Instead, I park a few blocks away and walk, pretending I’m just a tourist.
If I close my eyes, I can almost believe it. Almost. It never takes long for memory to flood back, though.
The city hums around me, alive in a way that feels almost offensive. Music spills out of open doorways, laughter cuts through the heat, and somewhere down the street atrumpet wails.
I don’t belong in this version of New Orleans, the one people come here for. I’m not here to be charmed.
I find a small café tucked between two louder storefronts and slip inside. It smells like sugar and coffee and something fried. I order beignets and coffee and take a seat by the window. The powdered sugar coats my fingers when I pick one up, and I take a bite, barely tasting it.
