Page 40 of The Next Lie

“The murdery one.”

“That does not narrow it down.”

“The murdery one with cheekbones?”

“They all have cheekbones.”

“The one who looks like he smokes at funerals.”

“Deacon.” I sink lower in the seat. “Drive faster.”

“I am already going ten over the limit, honey.”

"You can do better than that."

New Orleans slides around us, bright and damp after last night’s rain. The city does not care that my sister is alive. It has breakfast to serve and tourists to confuse. Balconies drip with ferns. Delivery trucks block streets with the confidence of kings. A man in a white apron smokes outside a kitchen door while a woman in heels walks past carrying a wilted bouquet at her hip, looking like she either had a great night or might need a lawyer.

I watch it all through Sonny’s windshield and let the city be louder than my thoughts. For twelve whole minutes, it works.

Then Sonny says, “Do you want to talk about it yet?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Do you want to talk around it?”

I consider that. “Maybe.”

“Good. Around is my specialty. Directly through is for therapists and men who think a text three days later counts as accountability.”

That gets an actual laugh out of me. She drives us to a café with outdoor tables tucked under a striped awning. Shiloh’s black SUV appears half a block back like a very expensive tumor. Sonny clocks it immediately.

“Decorative shadow?” she asks.

“Something like that.”

“At least they're hot. I hate ugly surveillance.”

We take a table outside because Sonny says sunlight is spiritually necessary after a dramatic night. She orders two iced coffees, a basket of beignets, shrimp and grits for herself, and a croissant sandwich for me because apparently I look like I need carbs and butter. She isn’t wrong. The first bite makes me realize I am starving. The second makes me furious that bodies require maintenance during breakdowns.

“So rude,” I mutter around the food.

Sonny looks up. “What is?”

“Female metabolism.”

“Agreed. Very patriarchal.”

I almost choke. She smiles sweetly and pushes the beignets closer. I eat one because powdered sugar is cheaper than therapy and more available.

For a while, she talks about nothing. A bartender she hates. A woman at Noir who keeps trying to start a feud over parking. A tourist who asked if the Mississippi River was “the same one from history.” Her cousin’s new boyfriend, who apparently wears loafers without socks and therefore cannot be trusted.

I listen. I even laugh, and forget for a few minutes to snap the rubber bands on my wrist. Not because anything is fixed. Nothing is fixed. My life is currently a haunted Jenga tower, and someone keeps removing pieces with a chainsaw. But Sonny’s voice is easy to follow. Point A to point B to some wildly offensive conclusion about sockless men. It gives my brain a path that does not lead directly back to Delia.

After lunch, we wander. Shiloh follows at a distance. Ever is not visible, which probably means he's here, and I simply haven’t caught him yet. Sonny takes me into a bookstore that smells like paper and dust and old air-conditioning. It is narrow and crowded, with shelves stacked too high and handwritten recommendation cards tucked beneath paperbacks.

I touch spines as we pass. Dark romance. Romantic suspense. Fantasy romance. A whole display with discreet covers that are not discreet to anyone who knows what a dagger and a rose usually mean. Sonny stops in front of one shelf and gasps.

“Oh my God. They have it.”