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“If this Nel person somehow protected the gardens, the gates, the property here, someone in our history should have known her name,” said Rafe.

“That’s true, but Marcel was before this time, and Claudette, Martha, and Franklin were after. They would have missed this window,” said Jean.

“But if she placed the curse on Hampton as he was dying, it would have been in Grover’s time. He will know who this is,” said Trak.

“Then we see him again today and check on our certifiably crazy mother,” frowned Gaspar.

“Oh, I don’t think she’s certifiable,” laughed Nine. “I just think she’s a true free spirit that doesn’t care any longer what people think.”

The entire table stilled, staring at one another.

“You don’t think,” started Rafe. Miller held up his hand.

“Don’t. Don’t even say it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Back in the relative safety of his New Orleans loft, Hampton dismissed his men, opting for a quiet day alone. The ball had been a disastrous venture. People actually laughed at him when he attempted to speak about the Square or his possible election.

“Boy, you don’t get how things work here.”

“You ain’t from here, son.”

“You messed with the wrong family.”

He’d heard it all, and now, he was hearing the voices again.

You think this is enough? It’s not. You can’t burn away our memories.

We’ll follow you wherever you go. All of us. You can’t escape us until you make this right.

“I’m trying!” he yelled to no one. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Can’t you see that I’m trying? Help me make it right. What do you want?”

As usual, there was no reply. He lay back on the sofa, one arm covering his eyes. He needed sleep. He needed to have a few hours of quiet time and sleep. Then he would be able to think more clearly.

“You listenin’ to them negroes, boy?”said the voice. He knew that voice. That voice, more than any of the others, haunted him. It was laced, dripping with evil and hate. He’d heard the voice the first time when he was just ten years old.

“They gonna try to get to you. Don’t you let ‘em, boy. Don’t you embarrass the Hamptons.”

“Who’s there? I can’t see you,” he called quietly.

“Bennett? Who are you talkin’ to, baby?” asked his mother.

“I don’t know. Some man is talking to me.” His mother paled, looking around the room.

“There’s no one here, Bennett. You just play with your toys and ignore that voice, okay?”

“Yes, Mother.” She left him in his room, but Bennett followed her, watching as she approached his father.

“He’s hearing the voices. What do we do?” she asked.

Her husband had been medicated nearly his entire life, hoping to block the voices, and it still didn’t work. For the most part, he ignored them, but he knew that his ancestors had little luck in doing so.

“I’m not sure. He’s just a boy. We can’t medicate him, not yet.”

“Will they harm him? Do the voices physically touch you?” she asked.

“I’ve told you that they don’t,” he said, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know where they come from, but it’s obviously hereditary. Maybe he’ll grow out of it.”