I’m sure Eva appreciates that. The poor girl has been forced to take up the slack you and Cash left behind. I call her too much. Text her too much. But I can’t help myself. She’s the only true friend I have left.
Although… I hope that’s not true. I hope, despite your silence, that you’re still my friend.
I know I’ll never stop thinking of you as such. Not even if I live to be a hundred years old.
Forever and always, Maggie May
Who we are, deep down, the person we are on the inside, is simply a collection of choices. All our good and bad decisions are what ultimately makes us us.
I don’t reckon most folks think of it that way. Listen to any momma talk about a baby boy who’s gone to prison. I know he’s made mistakes, she’ll say, but on the inside he’s a good boy.
Horseshit.
You can’t separate a person from their choices. There’s no two ways about it.
I’ve been falling into that “prisoner’s momma” trap when it comes to Cash for quite some time now. Despite the crap he’s said, and the hell he’s put Maggie through (including but not limited to flaking out on her the night of the Halloween ball and bachelor auction and getting caught behind a barn with another woman), I’ve been saying to myself that deep down, on the inside, he’s a good guy.
But I think the truer statement might be that he was a good guy. Before the bombing. Before the head injury. Before all the drinking and self-pity.
Part of the problem is he hasn’t done anything huge and horrible. But he’s done lots of little things. Drip, drip, drip. Each new lie or missed date or unseemly assignation erodes away more of the man I knew and replaces him with someone I don’t recognize.
“For fuck’s sake,” he says from Smurf’s passenger seat. “You want to tell me what’s got steam pouring out of your ears, or should I just sit over here and watch it billow?”
That’s all the opening I need.
“Does the pain in your head blind you to the pain you’re causing others?” I snarl, checking my rearview mirror before changing lanes to avoid a pothole that’s filled to the brim with rainwater.
The storm blew its way out of the city yesterday, but the streets are still awash. Despite that, the locals who heeded the voluntary evacuation are returning to town. Canal Street is bustling with traffic and pedestrians out enjoying clear, chilly skies after two full days of stinging wind and rain.
We’re due to meet Leon Broussard, district attorney for Orleans Parish. But when I called Maggie earlier, telling her I’d pick her up after swinging by to get Cash, she made up some poppycock excuse about needing to do chores at her apartment.
I’ll meet y’all there, she said, and I didn’t push.
The real reason she wants to drive herself is that she doesn’t want to spend one minute sitting next to Cash. Not after the way he acted at the hurricane party.
“Who am I causing pain?” he has the nerve to ask.
“You know who. But if it helps, I can give you three guesses. Except the first two won’t count.”
He sucks on his teeth. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Luc. Stick to your usual earnest self.”
“Fuck you, Cash.”
“See? Earnest. Much better.”
“You hurt Maggie May.”
Something I don’t recognize moves behind his eyes. “For her own good.”
I frown at him, and that’s when I notice how drawn he is, how pale. It looks like he lost weight overnight. When I feel a tug on my heartstrings, I take imaginary scissors and clip the bastards.
“How can hurting anyone be for their own good?” I demand.
“A little hurt now to save a lot of hurt later.”
“You mean you spent the better part of two days flirting your ass off with Lauren’s little sister—”
“Her name is Kelsey.”
“Flirting your ass off with Kelsey ’cause you’re aiming to save Maggie May a lotta hurt on down the road?”
“Exactly.” He stretches his neck from side to side. Then he uncaps his flask and takes a healthy swig. “You’ve seen the way she hangs on me. Touches me. Talks to me.”
“I’m sorry. Are we talking about Kelsey or Maggie May?”
He rolls his eyes. “Maggie. She’s made up her mind she’s going to wear me down until I give in to her.”
“And so…what? You thought you’d prove to her that she should back off by throwing yourself at another woman?”
“I didn’t throw myself at Kelsey. I just, you know…” He makes a rolling motion with his hand. “Didn’t discourage her when she started coming on to me. And now Maggie knows I’m not playing around.” He blinks, and one corner of his mouth twitches. “Or more like, now she knows I am playing around. You picking up what I’m laying down?”
I’m desperately battling the urge to punch him. If I grip the steering wheel any harder, my knuckles are likely to burst through the skin.
“Did you have a dartboard full of shitty ideas and take aim at the first one you saw?” I say in disbelief.
I see it in his eyes then. Pain and sadness. And more pain.
“I’m all used up where it counts, Luc.” His voice is hoarse. Shit! Somehow my heartstrings reattached themselves and they’re being tugged to high heaven. “On the inside.” He touches his heart and then the scar on his head.
“Shut your soup hole,” I grumble, feeling… I don’t know. Something. Pissed off and sad and helpless and dammit! “You’re not used up. You’re hurt. And drunk most times. Both things are causing you to make dumbass decisions.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he stares out the window at the blue hybrid SUV parked on the street in front of the modern architecture monstrosity that is the DA’s office building. The place looks like a Borg cube made out of cinder block.
“She’s already here.” He hitches his chin in her direction when she steps from her vehicle to stand on the curb.
As I parallel park in front of her, I watch her in the rearview mirror. She’s nervously clasping and unclasping her hands, and I wonder if she’s agitated about seeing Cash after that debacle of a hurricane party, or if she’s apprehensive about our meeting with the district attorney.
Throwing on the parking brake, I glance over at Cash. Now it’s his turn to watch her in the rearview mirror.
“I keep trying to convince myself she’s not as beautiful as I think she is,” he murmurs.
I don’t need to look back to know every detail of what she’s wearing. Black pencil skirt. White blouse with a big, loopy bow at the neckline. Pumps that accentuate the small turns of her ankles.
She dressed for the occasion.
“And I keep trying to convince myself she’s not as wonderful as I think she is,” he adds.
“Oh yeah?” I make sure there’s a healthy dose of sarcasm in my tone. “And how’s that working out for ya?”
He frowns over at me, refusing to answer. Then he hastily climbs out of the truck.
After indulging in a big, windy sigh, I join him on the sidewalk. The storm left the air crunchy and crisp, like a fresh candy cane. I guess that’s appropriate seeing as how the Christmas holiday is just about two weeks away.
“Y’all ready for this?” Maggie asks, rubbing her hands together. “Because I’m not sure I am. I’m nervous as all get-out. I can’t help thinking we’ll have hit a dead end if Broussard doesn’t come through for us.”
That’s the way she’s going to handle it? Act like nothing happened? Act like Cash wasn’t a total asswipe? Not call him on anything?
Okay, then. “We’ll find a way to convince him,” I assure her, playing along.
When we turn up the walk, she takes Cash’s arm. He extricates himself from her grasp and gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Luc’s right,” he tells her. “No worries. We got this.” Then he quickens his step, forging ahead of us.
From the corner of my eye, I see her mouth pinch. She’s no dummy. She knows he’s avoiding her touch.
> The asshole couldn’t have picked a worse time to make his point. It’s obvious she needs more than words for reassurance; she needs the comfort of human contact.
It sucks to always be her second choice, but when I feel her hand slip inside mine, I curl my fingers around hers and hold on tight.
Chapter Fifty-three
______________________________________
Maggie
When you’re going through hell, keep going.
I don’t remember where I heard that or who supposedly said it. But whoever they were, they were right.
My question is, if you don’t keep going, what’s the alternative? Say to heck with it? Throw up your hands and quit like I almost did when I was fourteen?
No, thank you. Having danced with that devil once, I’m determined to never accept his invitation again. Like Dory in Finding Nemo, I keep on swimming. And I keep smiling despite dying a little inside every time I look at Cash.
Except for my parents’ deaths, nothing has been more painful than watching him flirt with another woman for two full days. Not even his disappearance ten years ago. At least then I didn’t have to see his rejection. It wasn’t branded onto the backs of my eyelids like the scenes of him snuggling up to Lauren’s kid sister—I use the term kid intentionally; Kelsey turned twenty-one two weeks ago.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
But as the seconds tick by like hours while the DA scrolls through the photos Cash took of Rick’s ledger and then compares the initials in the ledger to the names Luc gives him, I’m not so much swimming as squirming in my seat. Broussard has the best poker face I’ve ever seen.
“Beatrix Chatelain gave you those names?” he asks. His thick white hair, high cheekbones, and discerning blue eyes make him look like Ted Danson. And his deep voice echoes around his humble office.
I thought the DA would have swankier digs.
Then again, this is New Orleans. Despite its grand homes and old Southern money, the city operates on a shoestring budget. You’d sooner convince folks to set their hair on fire than increase their taxes to fund things like, oh, streets that aren’t filled with potholes, sidewalks that aren’t crumbling to dust, and decent offices for their public servants.
Broussard’s desk is nicked and scuffed. The whole room could use a fresh coat of paint. And besides the bookcase full of law books and family photos, there’s not a stitch of decoration on the walls.
“Yes, sir.” I nod. “She’s my aunt. Do you know her?”
A hint of a smile plays at his mouth. “You probably don’t remember. But a woman named Gloria Davis was caught embezzling money from the city. Your aunt helped me bring her down.”
“I do remember that,” I tell him. “It was what? Six years ago?”
“Seven,” he corrects.
“Gloria worked for the claims department putting together the settlement packets to resolve property damage disputes with the city, right? But it turned out she was fraudulently submitting claims on behalf of her family and friends. If I remember correctly, she stole close to half a million before she was caught.” Broussard nods, and I think I see a spark of respect in his eyes. “How did my aunt help?”
He touches the side of his nose and winks. “That’s privileged information. But suffice it to say, Mrs. Chatelain is a woman to be reckoned with. And someone I’ve come to admire and respect. If she thinks these folks are being blackmailed and extorted by Richard Armstrong and George Sullivan, then I’d bet my right arm she’s right. But what I don’t understand is how the three of you have come to be involved.”
“Well”—Luc clears his throat—“that’s a long story.” And then he launches into the same spiel we gave the aunts, only this time he adds that George Sullivan admitted to me in the interrogation room that, by fair means or foul, he means to see us hang for Dean’s disappearance. “We reckoned bringing Sullivan’s misconduct to light was our best bet for keeping our heads out of his noose,” Luc says. “And when we started asking questions, we were led to Cash’s dad. And the rest”—he points to the photo still lit up on Cash’s phone—“is as you see here.”
Broussard isn’t afraid of silence, evidenced by the fact that he lets it drag on for so long that I begin to sweat. If he asks me about what happened out in that swamp, I’m not sure I’ll be able to prevaricate. Like a priest behind a screen, there’s something about him that makes me want to confess and clear my conscience once and for all.
Instead, he says, “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard it said that Sullivan has used his power to sully the good name of an innocent.”
“That girl from St. Bernard Parish.” Luc nods.
Broussard grunts. “And I’ll be honest with you, I’ve been looking for a reason to open up an investigation of the man. He plays fast and loose with his position.”
“So you’ll call in for questioning the folks he and Rick have been strong-arming?” Luc asks eagerly. “Get ’em to go on the record and admit to the blackmail?”
When Broussard shakes his head, Luc’s expression remains unaffected. He has a pretty good poker face too. What he doesn’t have are good poker shoulders. Those droop a full inch in disappointment.
I reach over and give his thigh a reassuring squeeze. The large, ropy muscles bunch in response, and I quickly remove my hand.
“I can’t drag people in for interviews on hearsay,” Broussard says.
“But what about the photos?” Cash gestures toward his phone, still lying faceup on the DA’s desk. “What about all that money?”
“You mean the photos you illegally obtained? As for the money, there’s no crime against keeping large sums of cash lying around.”
Like Luc, Cash seems to deflate.
I don’t give his thigh a reassuring squeeze. I’m upset with him. I know he said he wants only to be friends, but given what we mean to each other…how can he rub my nose in his pursuit of another woman? How?
But of course I know how. With deliberation and intent. He truly believes his head injury has made him a lost cause, and he’s trying to scare me off by being…well, there’s no other word for it, a dick.
“If you don’t mind me saying”—Broussard pins Cash with a no-nonsense stare—“you don’t seem too broken up by the thought that if I was to find a way to move forward with this, it would mean you’d be instrumental in putting your own father behind bars.”
Cash’s expression turns ugly. “The bastard beat me pretty much daily from the moment my mother died until I was old enough to leave his house for good.”
I wince at the imagery that flashes through my head, and I’m reminded of all the times I naïvely brushed off a bruise or a black eye as simply the result of another schoolyard scrap.
And just that easy, I forgive him for the hurricane party. I can’t hold Lauren’s little sister against him. He was trying to make a point to save me…even if his ways and means leave much to be desired. And he’s already been through so much in life that I refuse to pile on.
Broussard nods. “Okay. So here’s the way I see this happening. One, we go in with a warrant, search Richard Armstrong’s house, and find the money and the ledger. Two, based on that evidence, we arrest Armstrong on suspicion of money laundering and blackmail. Three, we offer Armstrong a reduced sentence if he agrees to testify against his accomplice, George Sullivan. And four, that allows us to get Sullivan out of a position he’s got no business being in.”
“Sounds great.” Luc nods. “Let’s make that happen.”
“One tiny problem.” Broussard sits forward.
“You need evidence of a crime before a judge will sign off on a warrant to search Rick’s house,” Cash says.
“Bingo.” Broussard shoots a finger gun Cash’s way. “And since none of the victims seem willing to come forward on their own, the only thing I can think to do is to get a recording of Armstrong admitting to the blackmail…or some other crime that will afford us the right to search his property.”
“Tha
t’s all it’ll take?” Cash chuckles. It’s a deep, satisfied sound. “Leave it to me.”
Chapter Fifty-four
______________________________________
Cash
Dear Cash,
I spent spring break in Houston with Eva this year, and for the first time, her grandmother told me about the Gates of Guinee.
Have you heard of them?
According to Granny Mabel, they’re the way to the Voodoo underworld. If a person knows the right combination for opening them, they can go take a visit.
I asked if SHE knows the combo, but she told me only the most powerful Voodoo priests and priestesses do. She DOES, however, remember the children chanting a rhyme when she was young. “Seven nights, seven moons, seven gates, seven tombs.”
I shiver even as I write it.
I know you’d say it’s a bunch of donkey shine, but it’s hard to grow up here and NOT believe in something…more. And the thought of visiting the dead IS enticing. There are so many things I’d love to say to my folks, starting with an apology for asking them to go in search of Eva and Granny Mabel and ending with me telling them how much I love and miss them.
Then again, a trip to the underworld might mean I’d run into…
Never mind.
Wow. I was getting super dark there, wasn’t I?
Back to happier things. It was a perfect spring break. Well…almost perfect. Eva and I got in a tiff when she told me it was time to let you go.
Is she right?
Love, Maggie
In life, you only get a few perfect days.
Hope today is one of those. Hope it’s the day I look back on as the first step toward ending my father and George Sullivan and freeing Luc and Maggie from the chains of Sullivan’s revenge.
“You ready for this?” Luc asks as we watch my sperm donor head inside a corner spot in the Uptown neighborhood.
Broussard agreed that a happenstance encounter with Rick would be far more likely to elicit the confession we need than if I showed up at his house or office and started asking leading questions. So for the last three days, Luc and I have been trailing the sorry bastard. And finally, today, an opportune time and place for a “run-in” presented itself.
Volume Two: In Moonlight and Memories, #2 Page 17