PART I
THE TIGER
She steadied the old revolver as the tiger moved slowly toward her.
A deep, rotund purr rose from the darkness as the tiger delicately moved from the shadowy corner of her bedroom. Its sheer presence was so powerful, so massive.
As it prowled closer, Ophelia felt her own breath adjusting to its audible pants. Moonlight streaming in from a crack in the linen curtains shimmered across the tiger’s striped coat as its muscles rolled under its fur. And its eyes— far brighter than the moon, jewels of amber— stared back at her.
Familiarityoverwhelmed Ophelia as the wild animal continued moving slowly, seductively in her direction. She lowered the gun, and the cold metal of the barrel stung against the exposed skin of her right leg.Ophelia wanted to let go of the revolver, but she couldn’t. Her right hand was fisted so tightly around the grip that she could feel her tendons cramping. It was as if her hand was grasping onto fear while the rest of her felt an odd sense of peace. Steadily she sat down on her bed, holding a dignified posture out of respect for the tiger that she had met only once before.
The tiger placed its right paw upon the bed. As it crawled on top of her, Ophelia cautiously laid down on her back, allowingthe apex predator to stand over her like it was protecting her body from… something. She could smell the fresh dirt that clung to its fur and the intense musk expelled from its hot breath. Her mind went blank, waiting for the tiger’s next move, but it just stayed there, uncaring of her fear. Ophelia laid perfectly still until sleep pulled her under.
CHAPTER ONE
The panic-inducing sound of the phone alarm woke Ophelia at eight in the morning. Her body responded with alertness, but her mind remained in a deep haze. The start of a headache pressed against her temple. She stretched her limbs out like a starfish in an attempt to snag onto the source of the offending noise. Ophelia could never keep her phone charged and on her nightstand—it was her one small act of defiance in her otherwise orderly life.
As she continued to reach for her phone in the sheets, the dream came back in pieces—the gun, the tiger, the sense of protection she felt with the formidable beast standing over her.She finally located her phone wedged between the mattress and tufted headboard. A jolt of pain shot through the muscly bit between her thumb and index finger when she gripped the device, rescuing it from the memory foam crevasse. She hastily turned off the alarm and dropped it back onto the crumpled sheets along with the full weight of her body.
She rubbed the tender spot on her right hand. It was sensitive and tight. What had she done for her hand to be this sore? Perhaps she slept on it funny.
Ophelia sat up slowly, attempting not to anger the headachethat she now knew for certain lurked in the periphery. A brown case sticking out from under her bed caught her eye.
Her revolver case.
With utter disbelief, Ophelia crawled to the end of her bed. Her dad’s old revolver and its case. Lying at the foot of the bed where she had left it in her dream, even though it usually lived under her bed, locked.She cautiously picked up the gun and checked the barrel. Not loaded.Thank God.
Ophelia’s dad was a hunter and had three daughters that he taught to properly and safely use a gun. When she moved back to New Orleans from New York a year ago, her father and mother begged for her to live outside the city, claiming it was safer for her to live in the suburbs alone. She knew they were technically right, but Ophelia wanted to be in the city, so her dad insisted on giving her his old revolver for protection. At the time, she rolled her eyes—Ophelia had a security system and lived in a decent part of town. The need for an old, clunky revolver was pointless, but it made her dad feel better.
She placed the revolver back in its case under the bed and spun the five-digit combo until it was locked. Had she really unlocked a combination lock, taken out the gun, and sat on the edge of her bed, pointing it at an imaginary animal, all while asleep? Ophelia had never sleepwalked—or at least, she did not recall that she had. Suddenly, her body felt cold and clammy as sweat formed under her arms. She’d had greasy Chinese takeout and some wine last night, which she had consumed many times before. But she’d never woken up the next day feeling so dreadful and disoriented.
She opened her phone and tapped on Jolie’s contact. If anyone had insight into her sleep habits, it would be her middle sister.
Jolie picked up on the second ring. “Sup, sis,” she said in a distracted tone.
Jolie was the stereotypical chaotic middle sister of the Oubre girls, while their youngest sister, Evangeline, was the sweet babyof the family. Then there was Ophelia—the classic eldest daughter. Responsible, dutiful, and anxious. Although she was certain, she hid her anxiety well from others.
“Jo, have I ever sleepwalked?”
“You’re calling me on a Friday morning at work before I’ve had my second espresso to ask me that?”
Jolie worked at a stone and tile shop as their lead designer. She practically ran the place, so it was fine to call her at work.
Ignoring her sister’s sass, Ophelia continued. “Maybe in college, when I was drunk one night? I don’t know.”
Jolie hummed, and Ophelia could hear her take a sip of her espresso. “No, not that I recall. You were always the first to pass out and the first to wake up.”
Ophelia chewed on her lip, lost in thought. They’d shared a room when they were little and lived in the same apartment for the three years they had overlapped at Louisiana State University.
“Why you askin’?”
“Well—” Ophelia started, but she heard noise in the background of Jolie’s phone.
“Sorry, boo, gotta jet. Duty calls. I’ll hit you up after work.”Click.
Ophelia rubbed her face, clearing the sleep from her eyes. It would take all day for her to move past that dream. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that tiger. The last time was seven years ago in New York. She shook her head, trying to erase the memories of that horrid experience.
She walked to the bathroom, pressing the pads of her feet into the cold, tiled floor, enjoying the refreshing feeling on her flushed skin. Ophelia did her morning routine without thought. As she gazed into the mirror, she had the odd sensation of not recognizing herself, like the person staring back at her was a stranger. She leaned in and examined her long nose, touching it as if she could mold it like Play-Doh. She grazed her fingertips over her one mole that rested near the top right side of her lip.It was one of the unique things about her—a beauty mole like the old movie stars. After she brushed her long golden-brown tresses, Ophelia tied a thin black silk scarf around her head to keep the flyaways from her face and threw on a linen dress, which was about the only thing she could bear wearing during Louisiana summers.
