Algiers Point, New Orleans
The dark roux gumbo simmered on the stove,and Liza had long since finished snapping any and all beans. Sunny had retired to the living room sofa about twenty minutes ago and was quietly snoozing. Ophelia was in the backyard, having set up an umbrella and positioning a fan to blow on Sunny’s elderly husband, Elijah. She’d brought out a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of iced tea, and had invited Liza, but Liza opted to sit in the kitchen because the windows gave her a good view of the street.
She’d intently watched the street for approximately thirty minutes and had seen Connor jog by once about ten minutes after he’d left. He was sweaty, but he still seemed okay. There was no struggle in his focused feet or posture. He seemed perfectly fine in a physical sense as he ran; nothing conspicuous about his behavior at all. Just another neighbor on the Point using the sunny afternoon to maintain his physical fitness.
Connor was probably fine. Probably just clearing his head like he said. Might even feel a little better when he was done. But that feeling continued to weigh down her stomach, and it compelled her to get up and go outside.
Liza stood on the sidewalk between the McCarthy-Latimer house and Connor’s, shielding her eyes as she took a long look in both directions. Not seeing any sign of him, she walked to his house and, finding the door unlocked, she pushed her way inside.
“Connor?”
Standing still and silent, she listened for the sound of the shower or even snoring, in case he’d exhausted himself and opted for a nap. Hearing neither, she crept through the maze of connected rooms and found all of them empty. The kitchen was tidy and untouched as usual. The bottles were nestled in the corner of the counter like they had been that morning when she and Connor shared their coffee a few hours ago. He hadn’t come back and attempted to drown himself in alcohol. It seemed like a good sign. He was probably still running; likely still physically okay. But the feeling in her stomach persisted.
Slipping back out the front door, Liza walked at a quick pace she couldn’t seem to slow as a result of mounting anxiety, following the sidewalk that flanked Verret Street all the way to the Old Point Bar.
Liza poked her head inside the open doors and scanned the mostly-empty room.
Luke was behind the bar and waved a rag in the air. “Hey, Liza. How’s it going?”
“Hi, Luke.” Liza took one step inside and lingered long enough to scan the room again. Four men were at a high-top table, swigging sweaty mugs of beer and deeply entranced in the Saints game on one of the TVs. Connor was nowhere to be seen.
“Has Connor been in?” Liza called over the sound of the TV announcer.
Luke nodded at the side windows. “Saw him jogging by a bit ago, but he didn’t come inside.”
“About how long ago was that?”
Luke rubbed his chin. “Maybe five minutes. Wasn’t that long ago. He looked like he was heading up to the trail over there across the road.”
“Thanks.” Liza swung out of the building and stood on the street corner, scanning the trail in both directions. New Orleans was flat enough that she could see clear to the Quarter and the steeple of St. Louis Cathedral in one direction, and all the way to a distant patch of trees in the other.Nobodywas on the trail, including her elusive, tortured veteran.
The panic increased to levels that threatened to spiral out of control, and she decided she wasn’t high enough. New Orleans was flat as hell, and if she could get up above the houses in the neighborhood, surely she’d spot him. Luke had just seen him, so she knew he was close.
She made it back to the McCarthy-Latimer house in about three minutes, and then burst through the front door and speed-walked straight to the backyard.
“Hey!” Ophelia waved her hand and lifted the pitcher of tea. “Come sit with us. It’s nice in the shade.”
“I can’t find Connor.” Liza turned to face the house and saw Scott was still on the roof, and the ladder was still propped against the side.
“I’m sure he’s still just running. That man can run for a ridiculous amount of time,” Ophelia said, but Liza was already up the ladder.
She reached the edge of the roof and hoisted herself on top, carefully stepping up the slope toward where Scott crouched with a pile of shingles.
“Hey, Liza.” He slid the sunglasses up to his hair and wiped his brow. “You come up to help me, or are you just enjoying the view?”
Liza shielded her eyes as she scanned the horizon and streets. The greater New Orleans area stretched in all directions. From the white Crescent City Connection bridges that linked one side of the city with the other, to the office buildings and hotels downtown jutting up into the sky, to the flat rooftops of the Quarter, to the hairpin turn of the Mississippi. The river was like a wide band of mocha latte that had spilled in a solid brown ribbon, and it looked as flat and still as everything else from this vantage point—other than at one spot right on the bank, where a figure was trudging toward the water.
A masculine figure wearing a gray t-shirt and black running shorts.
The Mississippi did not look like the type of water Liza would ever even want to dip a toe in, but she was far less adventurous than the average person, and she furrowed her brow as she squinted.
“There he is,” she announced.
“There who is?” Scott asked, dropping the sunglasses back over his eyes.
“Connor. He’s swimming in the river.” She pointed at his now half submerged body. “Is that safe? It looks kind of dirty and—”
“What?”Scott whipped his head around and shoved the glasses back up on his head. “No, you don’tswimin theriver!”
