Moving of its own accord, my hand travels to the large one, the thick, angry pink line that technically ends at my belly button and winds around my waist above my pelvic bone, creating a path that stops just shy of the left side of my spine.
I clutch my stomach, my other hand resting over my chest as it starts to heave. I stare at the three five-inch-long scars that reside over the place my heart used to be before my fingers slide up to my throat, outlining the mostly hidden one that sits just above my collar bone.
A work of art.
A real piece of work.
I hadn’t even realized tears started to form until one unexpectedly rolls down my cheek and plummets to the marble countertop of the sink. And that was enough to break the trance.
Wiping my eyes, I get my sorry ass into gear, throw my clothes on and take one last look in the mirror. I never realized how meaningful my tattoos really were until they started hiding the demons I’m doomed to carry around with me forever.
Which definitely means today is going to be a shit show. And that’s why I open the medicine cabinet, take out a bottle then tap two pills into my hand before replacing everything.
Running down the spiral iron staircase, I toss them in my mouth and head toward the kitchen. Not because I’m hungry, never that, but I know my body is going to need some sort of fuel to successfully function at work. Which is why I choke down a banana and a cup of coffee before triple-checking my go bag.
“Wallet... passport... chargers... iPad... laptop.” I start to panic as I dig through my backpack. “Clothes... toiletries... meds. Where is it?” My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I am heading toward a panic attack, but I blow out a breath when my fingersbrush the cold metal of my Beretta, the extra ammo, and its cleaning kit.
Thank fuck.
Tossing in a couple bottles of water and a protein bar, I zip and buckle the beat-up gray canvas, and move to the counter to grab my keys and cigarettes before I start walking across the empty space that used to be my living room-slash-studio.
Weaving in and out of the various objects shrouded in white cloth, the ghosts living in this mausoleum with me stay quiet while I refuse to stroll down the most fucked-up memory lane there ever was.
Not today, assholes.
Then I slide my aviators on and take a deep breath, count backwards from ten, and finally step outside.
2
LEONOR
The old plantation property finally comes into view, and I sigh.
God, I hate it here.
The almost three-mile-long driveway was originally a back road out of town, way before it was ever bought and turned into a home, and the owners left it lined with southern live oaks and weeping willows. Then eventually the remnants of various workhouses as the land was bought and sold over the years.
I slow down as I pull around to the back of the two-story carriage house that sits just beyond the main gate then put my Prius into park once it’s hidden.
The carriage house has been converted into a museum upstairs in what was once the gamekeeper’s quarters, the exhibit complete with artifacts that belonged to the family who built the plantation in 1783. And that alone gives me the creeps becausehello,pre-Civil War plantation in NOLA.
This place is ghost central on a normal day, and today does not feelnormal.
Probably doesn’t help that I found a rather macabre piece of shit waiting on my windshieldafterI had a mini panic attackwalking through the parking structure. My mindset is not solid despite the extra meds, and coming here doesn’t chill out the ick factor much.
I glance over at the passenger seat, the creepy little patchwork doll wrapped in twine staring up at me with itsno eyeballs.
That’s what I found on my windshield. A doll no bigger than my hand, made of mismatched fabric stitched together with thick black thread, and where the eyes should be is nothing but black burn marks.
Awesome.
I shake off the heebie-jeebies, open my door and step out, but I pause before grabbing my bag from the backseat. My eyes wander toward the acres and acres of land, staring out at the dilapidated shacks that used to contain dozens of men and women forced to work here for the Bissonnette family centuries ago.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as a chill ripples violently down my spine, and I shake my head. I hate those buildings, hate their history and what they represent, but I understand why they need to be here. That history can never be forgotten, and it’s one of the only reasons I’m here to begin with. My skills can help make sure that doesn’t happen.
Shaking off the heavy feelings that always hit me, the overwhelming sadness emanating from the acreage before me, I throw my bag over my shoulder and turn to start my half-mile walk to the main house.
Everything about the Bissonnette mansion oozes grandeur and wealth, from the enormous porch that wraps around the entirety of the main level, to the Romanesque columns that shoot up from the planks of wood as if trying to mimic the ancient trees in front of them. This place was built to impress, towow and brag, and in a sick way, Mr. Bissonnette did that right up until the very end.
