I sprinted the remaining six blocks home and slammed the front gate behind me, pausing on the stoop to catch my breath. I grasped one of the slick, wet bars and looked both ways down the street.

No one. Nothing.

Safe behind the iron gate, my pulse mellowed, but then I remembered there was a giant hole in the back of our house—not exactly high security.

Rain dripped from my dress and weighed down my Docs as I stormed to my room. I kicked off the boots and flopped onto my bed, not caring when my hair soaked the pillow.

What the hell just happened?

The stake was still clutched tightly in my right hand. I loosened my grip, allowing blood to flow back to my fingers, and then turned the piece of iron over and over, examining it, but there was nothing to give me a clue.

Blue eyes. Dead, blue eyes. Why were his eyes still so blue? He showed no signs of decay, but the Storm hit over two months ago. My hands began to shake. I set the stake down on the bed as I tried to recall the scene in exact detail.

The black sedan seemed undamaged, except for the smashed driver's-side window. Gray suit, blond hair, blue eyes. My breathing picked up. What if the man hadn't actually been dead and I'd neglected to help him?

No, he had no pulse. He could not have still been alive. And yet, he certainly couldn't have died two months ago. Did I discover a man who'd just died?

I sat up quickly, knocking the stake off the bed. My heart pumped faster as I tapped 9-1-1 a second time.

No signal.

I dialed four more times until I finally heard ringing.

"Hello."

"Hello! I need to report a murder!"

"You have reached the New Orleans Police Department's automated hotline. If you're calling to report a missing person, please visit our website at www.nopd.gov. If you're calling to report a crime or another emergency, please stay on the line."

"You've got to be kidding! Who in this city has Internet right now?"

An instrumental version of "Mardi Gras Mambo" started playing. Then a gentle scraping sound came from the ground next to my bed. I glanced down.

"What the . . . ?"

The stake was standing upright on its point. I blinked several times. As the hold music droned on, the stake slowly started to turn, grinding itself into the floorboard.

"To report a dead body, press one. To report a dead animal, press two. To report a non-Storm-related violent crime, press three."

I pressed the number three without looking.

"Please state the nature of your call. You can use phrases like, 'My house has been robbed.'"

"Um, I'd like to report a crime. A dead body, possibly a murder—"

"Thank you for calling the NOPD. Who am I speaking with?" asked a despondent female voice.

The stake stopped turning.

"Hi, my name is Adele Le Moyne." My tongue garbled the words.

"Miss Le Moyne, what's your location?"

"Burgundy S—but the body's on Chartres Street around Franklin—"

"There is a separate line to report Storm victims, Miss Le Moyne—"

"He's not a Storm victim! I mean . . . 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 in a black town car on the side of the street, about forty minutes ago. I tried to call earlier, but the line was busy." Talking about the corpse brought the reality of post-Storm New Orleans to a whole new level. 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. It didn't look like he'd been in a car accident . . . His driver's-side window was smashed in."

"Did you see any other distinctive wounds or unusual markings?"

A splinter of wood cracked—the stake was twisting itself into the floor again.

"Um, no, but I was only there for a minute before I ran away."

"Okay, Ms. Le Moyne, any other details you'd 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 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 head shake.

"I'm losing my mind."

***

When I woke, the sheets were damp. I was unsure whether it was from the rain-soaked clothes I'd fallen asleep in or from the layer of sweat coating me thanks to the humidity and lack of air-conditioning. My face throbbed from when I'd accidentally rolled 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'clock?" I groaned. "Ugh, jet lag." That was four a.m. Paris time. Immediately, those dead blue eyes popped into my mind. Memories of the nonsensical events at the Ursuline Convent attic followed.

I suddenly wanted something to do—anything to avoid the vivid memories. There was still the daunting task of moving my entire life's contents upstairs to the attic. Perfect.

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, applying some of the ointment Ana Marie had given me, and wondered where my father was, out past curfew.

***

The staircase led to 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 me and my father.

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. Maybe Dad didn't connect the attic breakers to the generator? I slowly scanned the unkempt bedroom with my flashlight 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.

In the darkness, the room was unassuming, the furniture covered up with drop cloths. I bumped into a tall, slender object and pulled off the sheet, revealing a lamp. When I toggled the switch, muted light shone through the yellowing linen shade.

"Success!" I removed the lamp shade to amplify the light. "Good enough for tonight."

The room was actually quite large, covering the width of the downstairs. The ceiling sloped at various heights, and four dormer windows protruded over the front of the house. There was a fireplace and two doors on opposite walls.

The first door revealed a small room, about ten feet by ten feet. I flicked my flashlight around for a few seconds. Mountains of stuff were piled up to the ceiling. My elbow bumped a stack, sending a tower of books tumbling. I shut the door, hiding the mess.

"A task for another day," I said, moving on to door number two.

A single bulb flickered on when I pulled the long ball 'n' chain dangling from the ceiling, revealing a pedestal sink, over which hung an oval mirror covered so thick with dust I struggled to see the small smile spread across my face—the task of cleaning everything out suddenly didn't seem so arduous if the end result meant having my own bathroom.

With slight trepidation, I opened the glass door of a tall, narrow cabinet—even though I had a rightful claim, it still felt like I was digging through someone else's things. Stacks of towels long past their prime. A heavy silver hairbrush. And an assortment of vintage cosmetics. I ogled a collection of perfume bottles made of multicolored, unlabeled glass. I picked one up, disrupting the long-settled dust, which, in turn, disrupted my sinuses and caused me to sneeze three times. The only word on the rose-colored bottle was "Paris."

Who did you all belong to? You're way too old to have belonged to my mother.

The little objects begged me to make them shiny again.

First, I pulled out the rotting linens. They were far from salvageable, but my affinity for fabric made me poke through them anyway. A misplaced square of lace lay among the tattered terry cloth. The dry-rotted Chantilly fell apart at my touch, revealing a round piece of silver. It was too big to be an old coin. One side of the medallion had an ornate border but was otherwise rough, as if something had broken off and left behind a scar in the metal. There was something familiar about the shape—an eight-pointed star. The other side was flat and smooth. Blank. It looked sad. Unfinished, like a canvas someone had given up on.

More upset by the loss of the old textiles, I slipped the medallion into my pocket and sighed at the tragic state of the disintegrated loops of lace. But after another minute of mourning the fabric, I started a trash pile, telling myself I couldn't get attached to every inch of vintage something or other I found while cleaning.

***

The smell of bleach permeated the air as I wrung the mop into the sink. My fingers ached from scrubbing. I caught a glimpse of my watch: more than two hours had passed—and I had only finished the bathroom.

Break time.

The air in the lamp-lit bedroom wasn't much better. I struck a wooden match and nearly dropped it when the flame leaped higher than expected. How old are these matches? The smell of sulfur singed the air. I held one of the Voodoo shop's sage bundles over the flame, unsure whether it would help or hinder the dusty and now chemical-filled air.

At least the room will be free of evil spirits.

The dust began to tickle the back of my throat, making me cough.

I left the smoking herbs in a glass dish on the fireplace mantel and, with some force, managed to wriggle open one of the windows. In the darkness, there was nothing to look at save the moon, but I rested my elbows on the sill and breathed in some of the cooler, cleaner air.

No tourists, no screaming drag queens, no horse hooves clacking down the street, the perfect still of the night was something I'd never get used to. Not in New Orleans. The quiet freaked me out.

My mind drifted back to the Ursuline Convent. The shutter. The nails. The stake. I could almost feel the swoosh of energy that had moved past me after the shutter burst open and the glass rained down in sparkling shards.

A trapped breath escaped.

It is a miracle I walked away unscathed.

I leaned out the window and tugged at the shutters, which were almost exactly like the ones at the convent. Neither of them budged. They were fastened securely open—I was not sure what else I expected to happen. With my upper body still hanging outside, I noticed a silhouette perched on our neighbor's balcony: a large black crow. Its head turned to the side, the crow stared at me. I yanked myself back in and slammed the window shut, banging my head in the process.

"Dammit!"

Touching the bandage on my face, I looked through the glass spitefully, but only the moon stared back at me. Come on, Adele, it's just a stupid bird.

I shoved the window open again and turned back around, determined to resume cleaning.

"Adele—"

"Dad!" My hands fell to my knees, my pulse exploding. "Are you trying to scare me to death?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I called your name when I walked through the front door." He pulled me up. "What's wrong?"

I hesitated as the day's events sped through my head. There was no real need to tell him about the dead body. It would only make him worry and might even result in attempts at stricter parenting, an experiment in which I did not want to be a test subject. And there was no rational way to explain the bizarre events in the convent courtyard. The raining nails. The stake. I felt insane just thinking about them.

"Nothing's wrong. You just startled me. How was your day?"

"Okay, all things considered. No leads on finding someone to fix the wall. The supply-and-demand ratio for labor is already way out of whack. It's gonna be mayhem when the masses return."

"And the bar?"

"Looks like it got a couple inches of water, just enough to damage anything that was resting on the floor, drywall, etc."

"Oof. That's good? I guess?"

"Yeah, it could have been a lot worse, I suppose. The smell was the worst part, but I managed to drag out most of the rank furniture. Did you make it to school?"

"Uh, no." I braced myself for the onslaught of guilt after lying to my father, but I didn't want to open that can of worms tonight. I moved my bandaged hand behind my back.

"What's that smell in here?"

"It's sage. Oh, I ran into an old friend of yours . . . and Mom's. She sends her regards."

His left eyebrow raised into a question mark.

"Ana Marie Borges."

"Where'd you run into Ana Marie?"

"In their shop. That place is so cool! I can't believe you've never taken me there before."

"What were you doing in Vodou Pourvoyeur?"

"Nothing, really. I moseyed in because it was actually open."

He looked a little more uncomfortable than usual.

"It was kinda weird," I added.

"How so?" he asked.

"Just, they kinda acted like they knew me."

"Ana Marie and Morgan have a daughter about your age."

"Désirée. We met. She's delightful."

He laughed. "Well, I'm sure she's grown up wanting for nothing."

"That's an understatement."

"Let me guess, the Storm went easy on their shop?"

"To quote Désirée, the Borges 'don't have problems with storms.' Oh, I have some more sage if you want to bring a bundle to the bar."

He gave me a funny look.

"You know, for the rank smell?"

"Right. You should go to bed. It's late."

I looked down at my watch. "It's after midnight? Whoa, where have you been all night, Dad?"

"I told you, at the bar—"

"But what about the curfew?"

"It's not like I was out loitering or looting, Adele. People have lives. People have families to support! Damn curfew."

"Jeez, sorry I asked."

"And that doesn't give you permission to be out past curfew."

"All right."

He moved to the window and pushed it shut.

"I took an epic nap," I said. "So I'm not really tired."

He picked up the bucket of dirty mop water. I sighed, switched off the light, and followed him down the stairs to my bedroom door.

"Try to sleep. It's the only way you'll get back on Central Time." He kissed my cheek. "Good night."

"G'night."

I kicked off my flip-flops and stripped off my T-shirt, finding the gris-gris necklace Ritha had given me stuck to my chest. Something about the casual way my father had spoken about the Borges struck me as odd.

I peeled the gris-gris from my skin but decided it could stay.