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“Farmers market should be open. Can get yourself somethin’ to eat dere, too. Dey have a boudin breakfast sandwich. Call it the Parrain Special, when you ask for it. Mais, it’s good. Just make your way up dis street, turn left onto main street, and it’s right in town dere.”

The in-depth directions are much more than I expect. It’s not that people in Michigan are assholes, we’re just not as friendly to strangers.

“Thank you.”

Another nod, and she disappears behind the curtain.

* * *

People bustle around tents that are set up at either side of a walkway. Like insects, they buzz in and out, gathering their goods. If I could describe the people of this island in one word it would be jubilant, over and above the gloom that hangs heavy. From the zydeco music blaring from the overhead speakers, to the laughter and mirth, they all seem to live by the joie de vivre philosophy, a contrast to the decaying homes and slowly dying Valir accent.

A scan over the crowd reminds me that I am anyone and no one here. As nameless a face as any of them. There’s a sense of freedom in that thought. Just another person walking amongst them, and not the sole survivor of their most horrific murder case.

I catch sight of a tent midway along the path, with a colorful array of flowers and fresh fruits, and I make my way toward it. The vendor is a young woman, slightly older than me, who smiles when I nab a bouquet of colorful daisies.

“Do you have gardenias?”

“Sure thing, right dere,” she says, directing me to the large white blooms gathered inside a wide vase.

I pick out the best ones, grab an apple, and pay her. Burying my face in the sweet floral scent that reminds me of Maw Maw Day, I head in the direction of the truck, but pause when the sound of whistling draws my attention toward a tent off to the right.

A tall man, well over six foot and built like a wall, clutches a ball cap while scratching his head. “I don’ mean to be rude, but you’da finest looking catin I seen all day.”

That word again.

Frowning, I approach his tent, lowering the flowers from my face. “Can I ask you something? What the hell does catin even mean?”

“Das how we Valir folks call a pretty lady.” He stretches out a thick palm toward me. “Name’s Luc. Luc Bergeron.”

Bergeron. I won’t ask if he’s related to Bedroom Eyes Bergeron. I’m guessing so, given they seem to have a few similar features … like the full lips.

“Carly.” Returning the handshake, I glance around his tent, noticing all the meat. “Is this where I ask for the Parrain Special?”

“Oh, yeah.” His lips stretch into a smile, and he cocks a brow. “You heard of my boudin?”

“I have. I’m not sure what I’m ordering, but the woman said it was good. And that I should try it.”

“Woman? Name wasn’ Ana, was it?”

“I didn’t catch her name.”

Licking his lips, he gives me a onceover. “C’est bon. Wait here.” He spins around to what looks like a portable kitchen getup, and goes to work frying up a biscuit in butter, alongside an egg. When he finishes, the sandwich he hands off to me feels heavy, and my arteries practically groan in protest.

“I think you need to change the name to the Heart Attack Special, Luc.”

“I don’ think anyone would eat dat, if I did.”

“What do I owe you?”

“On da house. For da jolie fille.”

With a shy smile, I nod. “Thank you.”

Removing his cap, he scratches his forehead again, eye squinting. “Got a number I can call sometime?”

It sucks that he asks me this right after giving me something for free. “I don’t have a phone. And I don’t mean that in a mean, dismissive way. I’m sort of between places right now.”

“You need a place to stay?”