Page 37 of Spade

I laughed. It came out as a dry cough, all edge, no warmth. “Nobody haunts, if you do it right.”

“My line of work says otherwise.”

I had one other question. “You spoke of another woman coming into my life. Who is she?”

Her eyes seemed to change colors as she stared into her crystal ball. “She’s just like you.”

“You’re not going to tell me,” I said.

She shook her head. “Look into the mirror, Spade.”

I chuckled and walked out on my monthly visit to Roux.

Outside, the desert night was colder than expected, the wind coming in sharp over the rooftops. I started the bike and rolled out of the lot, headlights sweeping over the sign: Madame Roux, gold faded to nearly nothing, but still legible in the right light.

The only prediction I believed was the one I made myself.

Tonight, there’d be blood at the water’s edge.

And I’d be the one who decided whose.

15

Spade

The air in my apartment never moved. When I killed the A/C, it was a desert tomb; when I let it run, it was the kind of cold that made your hands ache after five minutes. I’d forgotten which version I left behind that morning, but the difference didn’t matter. The heat that hit me when I nudged the door open felt exactly like the air on the other side, stale and legal-pad gray.

It wasn’t the heat that made me stop in the doorway. The smell was wrong—mint gum, tangerine vape, the dry electricity of fresh tattoo ink. All wrapped up in the resin-and-vinyl haze you only found in houses that survived the ‘90s. I stood for two long breaths, no movement, keys still in my fist, before the silhouette shifted on my couch.

Jenna didn’t look up. She was exactly where she always landed: edge of the seat, elbows planted on knees, phone canted in both hands. She wore a cut tonight, the big white Q on the back stitched so fresh it still had the backing paper in spots. The club patch looked two sizes too big for her, but she held it like body armor, chest thrust out just enough to signal she owned the room.

I didn’t move, so neither did she.

“You’re home late.” Her voice was bored but sharpened. “I counted three hours since you parked across the street.”

“Who let you in?” I asked.

She jerked her chin at the deadbolt. “Picked it,” she said, with a flick of tongue over her teeth. “Like old times.”

I stepped in, relocked the door behind me. “You did it wrong,” I said. “This one’s only a minute job if you go in reverse.”

She rolled her eyes. “I had time to kill.”

“You could’ve waited outside.”

“I had calls to make. Chairs to break. Don’t you want to ask why I’m here?”

“No,” I said. I meant it. I was already opening the fridge. It was empty except for beer and a little green cylinder of espresso shots, four for a dollar at the Vietnamese grocer. I took out a beer, spun the cap off with the stub of my thumb. The glass was already warm, but that was a feature.

I crossed to the chair by the window, the only other seat in the room. Jenna’s gaze tracked me, her attention granular. Her hair was longer than last time, combed into a stripe down the center of her scalp, but the baby face under it hadn’t changed. She was in her late twenties and still looked sixteen, dangerous in the way a wolf pup was dangerous if you tried to corner it.

“I’m not coming back,” I said.

She made a face, all teeth, like she’d bitten something sour. “Oh my god. Like I’d even ask.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

Jenna shrugged. “News travels. Clubs don’t like leaks. You made the Weekly.”