Reva doesn’t know that. Or she does, and she doesn’t care. Either way, it’s a problem.
“She’s lying,” Shiloh says, eyes on her back.
“Obviously.”
“She’s not running from a boyfriend.”
“Well, duh.”
Shiloh exhales through his nose. “So why come here with some bullshit story that we’re bound to see right through? Even if we didn’t have the information we had from Cal, we’d see through that.”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is: I don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing.
Reva turns a corner and disappears for a second. Shiloh quickens his pace.
“Ever,” he warns.
“I see her.”
She’s heading toward a parking lot, cutting between two buildings. Her shoulders are hunched. Her backpack rides high on her spine like a child’s, making her look even smaller and more vulnerable. Unarmored.
“She shouldn’t be out here walking alone. The Quarter…after midnight. Fucking reckless.”
Shiloh grunts something that might be agreement.
She reaches her Explorer. It’s old. Battered. Out of place here among the iron-filigreed balconies, painted buildings, and cobblestoned streets. Shiloh’s truck sits at the other end of the lot, its dark paint swallowed by the night.
We pause, waiting as she digs in her pocket for keys, fumbles once, then jerks the door open and climbs inside. For a minute she sits there without moving, then she jerks in the front seat, arms flailing, almost like she’s pitching a fit.
“Oh, she’s mad,” Shiloh murmurs, a current of humor underlining the statement.
Her horn gives a squawk, as if to echo the sentiment, and is abruptly silenced. Behind the windshield, her body goes still. She reaches up and smooths her hair with both palms, then starts the engine.
We give her a second, then continue on. We reach his truck and slide in just as her brake lights flare. He starts theengine with a quick glance in my direction.
“We’re following, right?”
“Duh.”
He pulls out smooth and easy, keeping his distance. Not close enough to spook her, but not far enough to lose her.
Reva drives like a woman who’s tired. Not careless, just…human. She stops too long at lights. Misses a turn signal once. Her posture stays tight, but she doesn’t look around like she’s expecting danger.
That’s a problem. Here she is wanting someone to kill a person for her, but she’s not anticipating danger?
Reva turns off Toulouse, then off Bourbon, then off anything that looks like a postcard. The streets thin. The light changes. The Quarter turns meaner at the edges, like the city is shrugging off its costume.
She drives until the buildings get low and tired, then turns into a lot that reeks of weed and week-old garbage.
A neon VACANCY sign flickers. Your classic no-name motel, its doors opening out to the parking lot. Curtains that don’t fully close.
The kind of place you don’t bring a date.
The kind of place you don’t bring yourself unless you don’t know better…or you’re running.
I curse under my breath. “This is where she’s staying?Jesus, Reva.”
Shiloh kills the headlights and rolls to a stop across the lot, angled so we can see her door.
