The city passed by in flashes of neon and shadow—bars spilling laughter onto sidewalks, couples walking hand in hand, and tourists stumbling drunk between restaurants. Normal people living normal lives.
I wasn’t one of them.
I never had been.
I connected my phone to the car’s Bluetooth and pulled up my podcast app. True Crime. Episode 47:The Bayou Strangler. A man who’d killed six women in the late ’90s, dumped their bodies in the swamps outside Houma, and was only caught because he got sloppy with the seventh.
The host’s voice filled the car—calm, analytical, detached.
I listened as she described the crime scenes, the forensic evidence, the way the killer had escalated from careful to reckless. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d just left two men bleeding in my jewelry shop, and here I was, listening to someone dissect another man’s violence like it was a puzzle to be solved.
But that was the difference.
I didn’t get sloppy.
I didn’t escalate.
I was precise. Controlled. Every act of violence I committed had a purpose, a reason, a calculated outcome.
The Bayou Strangler had been driven by compulsion.
I was driven by necessity.
The podcast continued as I drove through the Garden District, past the mansions with their wrought-iron gates and manicured lawns. My house was at the end of a private street—three stories of restored Victorian architecture.
I pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and sat there for a moment in the silence.
The violence was still humming under my skin. The adrenaline hadn’t fully faded. My hands were steady, but my pulse was elevated, my body still primed for action.
I needed to burn it off.
I got out of the car and walked to the front door. The house was quiet when I stepped inside—no music, no television, just the faint sound of movement coming from the kitchen.
Layla.
I could smell dinner before I saw it—something rich and savory, garlic, butter, and herbs. My stomach growled despite everything.
I walked into the kitchen and found her at the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet. She didn’t turn around when I entered, but I knew she’d heard me.
Layla was beautiful in a way that didn’t need announcing. Chocolate skin that glowed under the kitchen lights, smooth and flawless. Her body was tight, athletic—the kind of build that came from discipline, not vanity. She wore black leggings that hugged every curve and a cropped tank top that showed a strip of toned stomach. Her locs were pulled back into a high ponytail, the ends brushing between her shoulder blades.
She’d been my personal chef for two years. Came in three times a week, prepared meals, stocked the fridge, and left without needing conversation.
But sometimes—when the timing was right, when we both needed it—she stayed.
Tonight, she was staying.
“You’re late,” she said, still not looking at me.
“Had something to handle.”
“You always have something to handle.”
I walked over to the island, leaned against it, and watched her work. She moved with the same precision I did—efficient, confident, no wasted motion.
“What are we having?” I asked.
“Blackened redfish, roasted asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes.” She finally glanced over her shoulder at me, her dark eyes assessing. “You hungry?”
