there was— ther e i s a dead body in a black car on the side of the street… It’s not from the Storm… his eyes were still normal, so he couldn’t have been dead for that long, right?”
“Calm down. Slow down. Did you witness any acts of violence?”
“No, I was just walking and found him, about forty minutes ago. I tried to call earlier but the line was busy.” Talking about the corpse brought the reality of a post-Storm New Orleans to a whole new level. Chills shuddered through my shoulders. My father and I had been driving down that street less than twenty-four hours ago.
“And you have reason to believe this was a homicide?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. His neck looked really… wrong, like he had fallen down stairs or something. But he was in a car.”
“Did you see any other distinctive wounds or unusual markings?”
A splinter of wood cracked. I glanced down to the ground to find the stake turning itself again.
“Um, no, but I was only there for a minute before I ran away.”
“Okay, Ms. Le Moyne, are there any other details you would like to report?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“All right, we’ll send a unit over to investigate. I just need your contact information; an officer will reach out to you for an official statement.”
I gave her my contact info and hung up the phone.
“What the heck?” I tugged the stake out of the floor.
It felt hot.
I flung it into the nightstand as if it had some contagious disease, slammed the drawer, and fell back onto the mattress with an incredulous headshake. My chest tightened. “I’m losing my mind.”
* * *
When I woke, the sheets were damp. I was unsure whether it was from the rain-soaked clothes I had fallen asleep in, or from the layer of sweat coating me, thanks to the humidity and lack of air-conditioning. My face throbbed from accidentally rolling over on it, and my left palm ached. The silk sash wrapped around my hand was now encrusted with dried blood. I pushed it over enough to reveal my watch.
Nine o’cloc k ? I sat up a little too quickly, and the room spun. Had I really slept for sixteen hour s ? The overhead light was still on, and the curtains were still open, but it was pitch black outside.
“ Nine p. m . ,” I said out loud. It had only been four hours. “Ugh, jet lag.” I fell back on the pillows. Immediately, those dead, blue eyes popped into my mind, and memories of the nonsensical events at the Ursuline Convent followed. I groaned and got out of bed with illusions of productivity to avoid the vivid memories. There was still the daunting task of moving the entire contents of my sixteen years of existence upstairs. Perfec t .
First, I retrieved the first-aid kit. The alcohol stung, but the cut on my hand wasn’t that bad; the blood had made it seem far worse. I wrapped it tightly and then stripped off my wrinkled dress. The gris-gris necklace Ritha Borges had given me was stuck to my chest. I peeled it from my skin but then decided it could stay.
* * *
The staircase led to a small open space, which we lazily used for storage. I flashed my light as I stepped over sacks of Mardi Gras beads from years past, crates of bulk art supplies, and a box of winter clothes I would soon pull down for the two months a year that allowed for wool blends. The second level was an attic my great-grandparents had converted. I could count the number of times I’d been upstairs on one hand; the ground level had always been plenty big enough for the two of us.
I pushed the simple wooden door, and it swung open.
The air on the other side was thin and stale. A flip of the light switch got me nothing. Ugh. Had Dad not connected the attic breakers to the generator?
I slowly scanned the unkept bedroom with my flashlight. In the darkness, the room was unassuming, and the furniture was covered up with old drop cloths. I bumped into a tall, slender object and pulled off the sheet, revealing a lamp. When I toggled the
“Calm down. Slow down. Did you witness any acts of violence?”
“No, I was just walking and found him, about forty minutes ago. I tried to call earlier but the line was busy.” Talking about the corpse brought the reality of a post-Storm New Orleans to a whole new level. Chills shuddered through my shoulders. My father and I had been driving down that street less than twenty-four hours ago.
“And you have reason to believe this was a homicide?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know. His neck looked really… wrong, like he had fallen down stairs or something. But he was in a car.”
“Did you see any other distinctive wounds or unusual markings?”
A splinter of wood cracked. I glanced down to the ground to find the stake turning itself again.
“Um, no, but I was only there for a minute before I ran away.”
“Okay, Ms. Le Moyne, are there any other details you would like to report?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“All right, we’ll send a unit over to investigate. I just need your contact information; an officer will reach out to you for an official statement.”
I gave her my contact info and hung up the phone.
“What the heck?” I tugged the stake out of the floor.
It felt hot.
I flung it into the nightstand as if it had some contagious disease, slammed the drawer, and fell back onto the mattress with an incredulous headshake. My chest tightened. “I’m losing my mind.”
* * *
When I woke, the sheets were damp. I was unsure whether it was from the rain-soaked clothes I had fallen asleep in, or from the layer of sweat coating me, thanks to the humidity and lack of air-conditioning. My face throbbed from accidentally rolling over on it, and my left palm ached. The silk sash wrapped around my hand was now encrusted with dried blood. I pushed it over enough to reveal my watch.
Nine o’cloc k ? I sat up a little too quickly, and the room spun. Had I really slept for sixteen hour s ? The overhead light was still on, and the curtains were still open, but it was pitch black outside.
“ Nine p. m . ,” I said out loud. It had only been four hours. “Ugh, jet lag.” I fell back on the pillows. Immediately, those dead, blue eyes popped into my mind, and memories of the nonsensical events at the Ursuline Convent followed. I groaned and got out of bed with illusions of productivity to avoid the vivid memories. There was still the daunting task of moving the entire contents of my sixteen years of existence upstairs. Perfec t .
First, I retrieved the first-aid kit. The alcohol stung, but the cut on my hand wasn’t that bad; the blood had made it seem far worse. I wrapped it tightly and then stripped off my wrinkled dress. The gris-gris necklace Ritha Borges had given me was stuck to my chest. I peeled it from my skin but then decided it could stay.
* * *
The staircase led to a small open space, which we lazily used for storage. I flashed my light as I stepped over sacks of Mardi Gras beads from years past, crates of bulk art supplies, and a box of winter clothes I would soon pull down for the two months a year that allowed for wool blends. The second level was an attic my great-grandparents had converted. I could count the number of times I’d been upstairs on one hand; the ground level had always been plenty big enough for the two of us.
I pushed the simple wooden door, and it swung open.
The air on the other side was thin and stale. A flip of the light switch got me nothing. Ugh. Had Dad not connected the attic breakers to the generator?
I slowly scanned the unkept bedroom with my flashlight. In the darkness, the room was unassuming, and the furniture was covered up with old drop cloths. I bumped into a tall, slender object and pulled off the sheet, revealing a lamp. When I toggled the
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