Chicago is the only home I’ve ever known, because I don’t remember Louisiana. I think my mind blocked it out.
Home has always been missing something, though. I don’t know what it is, precisely, other than it’s sparked by the memory of a rosary tattoo and the echo of apop pop pop.
I look for it out my window in the streets that are never still.
I hunt for it under clothes and books and random receipts that litter every spare surface of my living space.
I chase it on every call, on the treadmill, in my sleep.
Stay, or go.
My movements slow but deliberate, I turn from the window and dig in the closet until I find the oversized duffle bag I’ve had since I left foster care. Setting it on the bed, I pick up the first item at hand and toss it in—my vibrator. Then I pack in earnest.
Go.
Reva—
You don’t know me, but I knew your father. We did work for the same firm decades ago, and I held him in great regard. He was something of a mentor to me.
I came across a joint calendar, and a date circled in pink tells me you’re eighteen now.
Happy birthday.
I just wanted you to know someone out there was thinking of you on your special day.
CHAPTER TWO
REVA
Thirteen hours.
That’s roughly how long the drive takes from Chicago to New Orleans, according to the GPS. Toulouse Street, to be exact, a street that from my research appears like any other adjacent to those in the French Quarter.
The Explorer makes it eleven and three-quarters before she dies, right on the outskirts of the city I’m headed into.
With a sound between a hiccup and a heave, Lucille gasps out one last breath before rattling to a stop on the side of a dusty highway. I pop the hood and climb out, squinting against the bright sunshine and pushing my sleeves up.
Despite it being November, it’s fucking hot. It’s got to be in the seventies.
Freaking ridiculous. It snowed last week in Chicago.
Smoke billows up from beneath the hood, and I scratch my eyebrow with resignation, chewing on my lip as I wait for some of the heat to disperse. I knew Lucille was on her last legs. Or wheels, I guess.
She has over two hundred thousand miles on her, but all in all, she seemed to be doing fine. I figured she’d get me down here fine.
And she did. Just not all the way.
After a few minutes, I remove my hoodie and toss it into the front seat. I’m wearing jeans and a strappy tank with my Docs and immediately feel a thousand times better. Fucking uncivilized for it to be this hot this time of year.
The smoke is dissipating, so I gingerly reach around for the latch that will allow me to spring the hood open all the way. It pops open, beaning me on the head and burning my fingers in the process.
“Mother FUCK,” I screech.
“Is that any way to talk to that sexy piece of vintage machinery?”
I glare around the edge of the hood, my gaze landing on a man who had to have stepped out of an underwear ad for Hot and Sexy with Muscles for Miles, except he isn’t wearing underwear.
I have no actual way of knowing if he is or isn’t wearing underwear, of course.
