The Girl on Prytania Street: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Kira Saito

  Outside, the front porch was filled with guests taking in the golden purple sunset as it bathed the oak trees in a supernatural light. Their faces relaxed and happy filled with the excitement that often comes after a full day of adventure and fun. I instantly thought of how much Zoe would have appreciated the view. She loved sunsets, that little piece of time when the chaos of the day was fading away and the sweet promise of a relaxing night was coming into focus.

  “Wow, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Chris said taking in my half-assed attempt at looking presentable. “That color brings out your eyes. Blue as the water down in Key West.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of hearing your own corny lines?” I asked as we walked towards the street.

  “Naw, not really. I figure that the world’s already full of cruel people, there’s no point in becoming one of them. Have you ever sat and read through the comment section on YouTube or just about any other site? I swear people like to compete with one another as to who can be the cruelest. Isn’t that something? My grandma used to tell me stories of back in the day when people would come together and try to make each other’s lives easier. They used to bake pies and casseroles for one another when one of them had a tough week or was feeling blue or simply stop by for a cup of coffee just to make sure their elderly neighbor was alive. Sometimes, I think that we’ve fallen so far that we’ll never find our way back to the garden.”

  I took a quick sideways glance at him, so the Matthew McConaughey clone was handsome and had a kind streak. I wasn’t buying it. There had to be more to his story, there always was. “That’s pretty deep for an internet reporter.”

  “Oh, touché,” he said opening the passenger door to a 1970s Chevy Malibu.

  I got in. “Are you sure that this is going to make it to the Quarter?”

  “You’re a little ray of positivity, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a realist,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll have you know that this car has taken me all across this great country of ours. It’s weathered through protests, hurricanes, floods, and a lot of other weird stuff.”

  “If you say so.” We sped towards the Quarter as the warm wind whipped through my hair. I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath hoping that the breeze would carry all of my problems with it. The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony” blasted through the speakers and I felt like a teenager again. “Well I never pray, but tonight I'm on my knees, yeah. I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah. I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now. But the airwaves are clean and there's nobody singing to me now,” I sang along.

  “You’re a good singer,” Chris said as he started to sing with me.

  “Thanks, you know, this song suddenly makes sense. Back in the day, I never really got it. I thought it was a happy tune, but now I see that it’s about a man who is struggling really badly and wants someone, anyone to understand that fact.”

  “We only get things when we’re meant to, that my friend, that is the beauty of life.”

  “Insightful for a fake news reporter.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you have a place in mind?” Chris asked.

  “I’ve heard great things about Loco’s. Have you heard of the joint?”

  “Never tried it, but today is the day for new things.”

  When we arrived at the Quarter, I took in the detailed iron lace balconies, ancient architecture, cobbled streets and was on the vigilant lookout for Lestat.

  “Who are you looking for?” Chris asked as we walked down Pirate’s Alley.

  “Lestat.”

  “Who’s that and why are you so anxious to find him?”

  “He’s a vampire who comes and gives people the choice he never had.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Life or death.”

  “What would your answer be?”

  “Death,” I said. “I choose death.”

  “Is your life really that bad that you can’t find one positive thing to live for?” he asked as we stepped into the dimly lit restaurant and took a seat at a back table.

  I studied the menu and then at the candle that rested in front of me. “Yes,” I whispered, “yes it is.”

  “Now come on, sugar, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re here in New Orleans covering the Dubois case. I saw your expression when Madame Queenie said that Charlene was dead. Most reporters don’t show that kind of emotion, they only want to get the scoop and glory. I’m betting that you’ve got a lot more going on than you’re willing to admit to.”

  I looked into his eyes, which were full of enthusiasm and warmth. “I only showed that emotion because I was thinking about myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve never seen my face before?”

  He studied me carefully for a few seconds. “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “I’m nowhere as famous as the Dubois family, but three years ago I lost a daughter too. I wasn’t thinking about Charlene. I was thinking about my own loss.”

  Silence filled the air. “I’m sorry,” he said softly as he touched my hand. I immediately pulled away. His face was replaced by Nigel’s.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said standing up.

  “But we’ve just arrived.”

  “I promised my friend that I’d buy her a voodoo doll. There is a cute little shop next door that sells them. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Order for me.”

  “But, I don’t know what you like.”

  “Pick something, anything. Something that your mom would approve of,” I said as I ran out onto the street. A gust of hot night air met me. I entered the dark shop next door and was overwhelmed by the feathers, beads, and bongs that surrounded me.

  “Can I help you?” asked the teenager who stood behind the counter.

  I studied his face carefully and took in his messy hair and black T-shirt which was covered in a massive white skull. I wagered a yes. “I’m looking for a friend,” I said.

  “Oh, I see.” He gave me a knowing wink, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Which kind of friend are you looking for?” he asked as he placed a selection of voodoo dolls on the counter. “Mary Jane, Miss Emma, Moggie, good old Hillbilly …?”

  “I’d like the Hillbilly doll. My friend is from the city, and she has a thing for all things country. She’d love the outfit on this little guy.” I was overcompensating by speaking louder than I should have because I still wasn’t used to getting my fix from off the street, doctor shopping was more my scene. It was easier because it was legal making the paranoia of getting caught less of a burden.

  He gave me another grin and slid over a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. I took out a wad of cash without really doing the math, which was rare for me. Typically, whenever I bought on the streets, I made sure to go to the cheapest place even if it took me to the other end of town. It was an expensive habit to maintain, and if you weren’t careful, you could end up homeless before you knew it. “Thanks,” I muttered stuffing the doll into my purse. I felt a pair of eyes on me and took a quick glance sideways. In the darkness of the store, a flash went off. “Hey,” I said as I tried to make sense of where the light had come from.

  “Did you see that?” I asked the teenager.

  He shook his head.

  I left the register and wandered to the back of the store and pretended to be interested in the endless rows of key chains that lined the shelves. I peeked through the shelf spaces and was met by a pair of squinty brown eyes and then another flash. It took a moment for me to connect the dots. It was the reporter who had been peering into my window. “Oh no you don’t,” I said chasing after him. I ran down the aisle and turned the corner. He was fast, but I managed to catch a hold of his camera strap and gave it a tug.

  “Hey, crazy lady, let go of that!” The thin reporter with the mighty beard and man bun had the nerve to call me crazy when he was the one who was stalking me.


  “I saw you taking pictures of me from across the street, asshole!” I continued to tug on the strap and so did he.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a tourist. That’s what tourists do, they take pictures.”

  “You were taking pictures of me through the shelf cracks, you pervert.”

  “I was taking pictures of the mojo sacks and rabbit’s feet for my blog, you weirdo.”

  “I remember your beard! It was you!” I tugged on the strap harder and so did he.

  “Look around, you paranoid freak, just about everyone has a beard!”

  A moment of self-doubt crept in and I took a quick glance out the shop door. There were multiple thin bearded men walking down the alley. My grip on the strap loosened and slipped out of my hands. The reporter took back his camera. “Have a nice life! You strange, strange woman! I won’t press charges because I feel sorry for your pathetic ass. The next time you assault a stranger think of how awful your pasty face will look in a bright orange jumper.” The reporter jolted out of the store. I ran after him determined not to let him get away.

  I chased him down the cobbled streets unsure if it was actually him who I was following. I meandered through the crowds of tourists, jazz bands, and strange street performers who were dressed as skeletons, witches, and ghouls. All of the faces seemed to blend together and soon became indistinguishable from one another. I ignored the glances as I continued to run after the reporter who was well out of view. Where had he gone? What did he want? Had he seen me buying the pills? I peeked into the various shops but couldn’t find him. I felt a hand on my back and jumped thinking that I was about to be attacked ambush style.

  “Sugar, what in the world is going on?” It was Chris, his face a mixture of confusion and amusement. “I saw you running past the Mexican joint like your dress was on fire.”

  “I …” I was at a loss for words.

  “Don’t tell me that you’re one of those girls who likes to work out before she eats a decent meal. I have a cousin who likes to do that. She runs around the block before and after every meal. Let me tell you, she is skinny as a bean pole.”

  “It’s not that. There was a guy who was following me. I saw him peering into my window from across the street back at the inn and taking pictures. When I was at the shop, he was doing the same thing. I confronted him, but he denied it.”

  “We can chalk it up to strange coincidence?” He shrugged. “Did you manage to confront him? What did he say?”

  “He denied everything. He claimed that he was a tourist.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was thin, with a big beard and a man bun.”

  “Like that guy?” Chris pointed at a guy standing next to us.

  I studied the guy. It could have been the reporter, suddenly, I couldn’t remember exactly what the guy’s face looked like. “That kind of looks like him.”

  “Or how about that guy over there?” He pointed at another guy who could have been the reporter. Magically, the street was filled with bearded men with man buns wearing white T-shirts.

  “I guess that could be him as well.” The firm belief that the man who had been taking pictures from across the street and the man who had been in the shop was fading as Chris continued to point out possible suspects.

  “Or maybe it was him, or him or that one over there.”

  “Stop! Just stop!” I screamed. People on the street stopped to stare and point, some of them laughed enjoying the little show. “What are you laughing at?” I screamed at the crowd. “Don’t you have anything better to do than stare at strangers?”

  “Hey, sugar, it’s okay, how about we go back to the restaurant and eat that delicious food before it turns stone cold and we can analyze the possibilities of who he might be.”

  “Sure,” I said taking a quick peek into my purse and thanking my lucky stars that the Hillbilly doll was safe.

  We walked back to the restaurant in silence. I took a seat and grabbed a nacho off the platter and took a large gulp of the margarita. “I figured you’d like that,” Chris said.

  “You figured right, thanks, sorry about what happened back there. I haven’t eaten today chalk it up to low blood sugar.”

  “It’s alright, I grew up in a house full of sisters, someone was always screaming about something. If it wasn’t over clothes, books, makeup or boys, it was about who got to boss me around more.”

  “I’m an only child. Growing up, I always wanted siblings, though. It must be nice to know that someone has your back no matter what.”

  “Well, we do have our issues, but I wouldn’t trade my family for any other. They’re my safety net.”

  We ate in silence until I asked the one question that I had been dying to ask him. “Do you really think that Charlene Dubois is dead?”

  He took a sip of his drink before responding. “I can’t say. The question is, what does Madame Queenie have to gain from lying?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that one out. The only thing I could think of is money. She knows that Mrs. Dubois is loaded and desperate. By telling her that Charlene is dead, she’s giving her more information than any other officer or detective. She’s giving her certainty, and as a mother, she’s probably desperate for that right now. Mrs. Dubois will probably shower Madame Queenie with a pretty paycheck and no one will be the wiser. You know how so many of these cases turn out, the body is never found and the suspects are never arrested.”

  “Sounds plausible. She could be in it for the cash, but I don’t agree with your analysis that these cases are never solved. Times are a changing and the public is waking up and growing hungry for answers. The media can’t sweep everything under the rug like they used to do before.”

  “And with fake news reporters like you around, they’ll always have an endless flow of conspiracy theories to satisfy their appetite.”

  “Oh, touché, I’ll let that one slide.”

  “In all seriousness, I think that Mrs. Dubois is looking for peace even if there is a lot of pain that comes before it.”

  “Is that what you craved when you lost your daughter?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “You told me that you lost your daughter, I assumed that you found peace after you found out what happened to her.”

  I stared at him for a few minutes trying to analyze if he was joking or plain blind. “Do I look like someone who has found peace, honestly?”

  “You look like someone who has dealt with a lot and is struggling. There’s no shame in struggling, we’re only human after all.”

  “I never found out what happened to her until this day. I feel that if I manage to somehow help Mrs. Dubois find Charlene, I can make up for not being able to find Zoe and for being such a terrible mother.” I was pouring my heart out to this fake news reporter as if we had been friends for years. He was easy to talk to and a hell of a lot more perceptive than my therapist had been.

  “I doubt that you were a terrible mother and once again you’re not giving yourself enough credit. What you’re doing is noble. You’re helping someone in pain.”

  “Only because I’m thinking about myself.”

  “We can sit here all night and debate over how lousy of a mother you think you are or we can enjoy this platter of fajitas,” he said eying the sizzling platter the waitress placed in front of us.

  “This is a lot of food.”

  “That’s a good thing, right? You get to spend more time with yours truly.”

  I gave him a small smirk and reached for another nacho.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard

  My alarm clock buzzed and my feet automatically hit the cool marble floor. It took me a few moments to coordinate myself and let the realization that another day had started sink in. This was my favorite time of day, when the sun was just rising and new possibilities and opportunities were ready and waiting to be taken. A handwritten note rested on the dresser. I opened it.

  Had to a
ttend to some early morning business. I’ll see you in a few hours. The jet is all fueled up.

  Anita

  I grinned. She was superhuman, barely slept a wink yet had more energy than my entire kitchen staff. I don’t know how she did it, one day I was going to find out.

  “Mr. Givens, are you awake?” The housekeeper’s voice sounded strained as usual.

  “Barely, what is it, Cindy?” I hoped to God that she wasn’t going to ask me if she could bring me breakfast in bed. She was new and was always forgetting my preferences, which was the only thing she was paid to remember.

  “A Detective Ryan is here to see you.”

  “Tell him that I’m busy and I’ll call him when I get the chance.”

  “I already told him that, but he insists.”

  “Make up another excuse, any excuse. I can’t deal with him today, I already have a full day ahead.”

  “He’s been waiting for over an hour already. He refuses to leave until you see him.”

  A low sigh of frustration escaped my lips. That detective was as paranoid as Kate and insisted on paying me a visit whenever he felt like it. I glanced at my phone. There were no messages from Kate, though she had left lovely comments on my Instagram post last night. “Fine, I’ll be right there,” I said getting out of bed and heading into the bathroom. I quickly showered, brushed, and put on a suit. The cops always respected you more if you put in half an effort. If your suit was more expensive than what they could afford, then it was even better.

  The detective was seated in the main salon sipping on a cup of coffee and watching the red and yellow sun light up the city skyline. He was a tall black man whose athletic physique and youthful face made it seem as if he were much younger than a middle-aged fifty-something.

  “Morning, enjoying the view?” I asked.

  “The New York skyline never fails to amaze me,” he said standing up and extending a large hand.

  “Especially when it’s from the top.” Was I proud to live on the entire top floor of one of New York’s most prestigious buildings? Hell yeah. It was a shame that my mother had to overdose before she got a chance to see the view. Frank, the little weasel was always coming around in hopes of borrowing some cash. I showed him the same courtesy he had shown me.