Page 62 of Lovely Darkness

I hold my breath for a minute. I know he’s right. But I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong here. Something’s wrong and I’m missing it.

I hate that feeling. Especially when Maggie is here and I’m about to go off for a night with McKay. I let out that breath. “Maybe we shouldn’t go?”

“Why?”

“Because Maggie—”

“Maggie is fine.”

We both look over at the front porch where Maggie and Sasha are playing those hand-slapping games. They’ve been at it all afternoon. They took a break for lunch when I called Maggie in to eat, but other than that, they have been laughing and smiling their way through this day like nothing is happening, when in reality shit is going down. It’s just… invisible shit right now that no one else feels but me.

And I can’t even say that out loud because I would look insane.

“Adam. She’s with Sasha Cherlin. And Merc whatever-the-fuck-his-last-name-is. Seriously. If anything happens to any of us right now, maybe we fucking deserve it?”

“You’re not helping.”

McKay walks over to me chuckling and shaking his head. “Let go, man. Your job is done.”

“How can you say that? Maggie is six. Six, McKay. I’ve got an entire lifetime of work left to do.”

“She’s not your work.”

“This again?”

“No. I’ve said what I’m gonna say about it. I’m done.” He opens the passenger door to his truck and points. “Get in. We’re leaving.”

“Bye!” Maggie calls from the porch. “See you tomorrow! Have fun!”

McKay shoots me a look. It’s his cocky, one-eyebrow-raised, I-told-you-so look.

“Fine.” I get in the truck and we leave.

The sun is low on the horizon when we arrive in New Orleans and the sky is promising a spectacular display tonight, deep red and russet orange mixed in with a smattering of bruised purple. I catch McKay looking at the Mississippi River as we wind our way through the too-narrow streets towards the Corinthian.

“You know, we could’ve stayed at home,” McKay says.

“Wow.” I smile and look over at him as he drives. “I haven’t thought of that place as home since we left.” He’s referring to the other Boucher House in the French Quarter, the one we grew up in. “But we can’t stay there.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got five assassins lying low there until the heat wears off their last jobs.”

“Busy man,” McKay says, just as he turns into the Corinthian’s pretentious hidden courtyard. I can’t tell by his tone what he might think about my revelation, and normally I’d be interested in finding out. But I’m done thinking about shit like that tonight. I just need a break.

McKay stops at the valet and we get out. The doorman calls us by name, even though I haven’t been here in a couple years, at least, and McKay hasn’t ever been here. He whistles, looking up at the fresco on the ceiling as we walk into the lobby.

The concierge is waiting. Smiling. Hands together, leaning forward, eager to please. “Mr. Boucher. Welcome home.”

McKay chuckles, then mutters, “Home,” like it’s almost an insult.

But he’s not wrong. This place is too much for either of us. I knew when I bought it, but it’s classic New Orleans and guests eat that shit up.

“Your room is ready, of course,” the concierge says. He gets a confused look on his face when he notices we don’t have bags.

“I called ahead,” I explain. Like this explains anything.

The concierge smiles. “I will personally take you up to the penthouse, sir.”