Molly

Stas and I meet for dinner at Emeril’s, a few blocks from the hotel toward the river.

The restaurant is shaped like a barrel with arched ceilings and a sort of woven effect on the inlays. Wood floors and matching tables and chairs are arranged throughout the space. I tell the hostess I’m meeting an older gentleman, and she immediately leads me past the exposed-brick wall to a small table in a more secluded corner.

As we pass through the elegant restaurant, I coolly take in all the guests, scanning every face for any sign of recognition or threat. I see none.

Stas has a tumbler of scotch in front of him, and he stands when I approach. “I’m glad you felt like joining me.” We exchange a brief hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I nod, sitting. “I took a nap, and it seemed to help.”

A nap. I never nap, but I’m so tired all the time now.

The waiter takes my drink order, and I dare a glass of pinot gris. Once he’s gone, Stas is immediately down to business.

“My train leaves this evening at ten. I’ll only be gone two days. Were you able to uncover anything new?”

MM50’s final text has been on my mind. I’d been waiting for him to send me another message, but nothing had arrived before I left the hotel. I glance around us. The nearby tables are empty, and no one is close enough to overhear us.

“I searched police records, but nothing was out of the ordinary.” Nothing I didn’t already know. “I know fabricated police reports, because I know what really happened in certain situations.” My dinner companion only nods, listening intently. “But after the theater burned, his trail goes cold.”

Stas exhales deeply and relaxes back in his chair. “I’m afraid that’s the end of the story.”

“Not necessarily.” His brow perks at that. “I have one last query out to see if anyone has verifiable information. As soon as I hear back, I’ll let you know.”

The waiter appears to take our orders. Everything on the menu is so rich and flavorful, I have the Iceberg Wedge salad. Stas gives me a disappointed face, but I only shake my head. I’m not taking any more chances. He orders the Andouille Crusted Gulf Drum, a white fish crusted with sausage and served with a Creole Meunière sauce.

Once the man is gone, my friend leans forward and speaks quietly. “I’m probably going on a fool’s errand.”

“It’s worth it to be sure you’ve done all you can.” I take another sip of wine, feeling more confident in my stomach’s ability to keep it down.

“What will you do while I’m gone?” He takes a sip of his fresh scotch.

It’s unlike him to be sentimental, but I trust him enough to talk. “I’ll wait for word from my people, and I’ll probably stroll around the city. Pass the time.”

“You miss him. You should ask that young man to come here. I have a feeling he’d drop everything to be with you.”

Not even Stas knows the extent of what I’ve done, and while I do trust him, I’m not involving him in my plans either. “He probably would… It’s not a good idea for this errand.”

He sighs and leans back. “I remember being your age, having so much time. Don’t wait for time to catch up with you. Marry the boy, start a family. Don’t end up a lonely old man like me.”

I take another sip of wine. “I don’t think I’d make a good mother.”

“Nonsense. You’d make the best kind, the kind who knows the world, who knows what to beware of.”

I exhale a short laugh, my fingers circling the stem of my glass. “A real mother bear?”

“Yes, that’s it. Mother bear.”

Our food arrives, and our conversation turns more mundane. I manage to finish my salad, but it had a creamy dressing I didn’t expect… or I didn’t read the menu closely. By the time we’re done, night has fallen over the city.

“I’ll walk you to your hotel. From there, I can take a cab to the train station.”

We walk the six blocks in easy silence, the click of our heels mixing with the hum of traffic, the occasional blast of a horn. My hand is on Stas’s arm, and when we arrive at the entrance, he stops.

“You have my number if you need me.” Nodding, I give him a brief hug. “Think about what I said. Life is too short, Myshka.”

I smile at his nostalgia, and nod before entering the hotel. It’s dark, but it’s not super late. Instead of going to my room, I walk to the other side of the lobby and look out toward the Quarter. So much time has passed, so many years. I’m keyed up, not ready for sleep, and I pull out my phone to call a Lyft.

A car is waiting at the curb, and I dash out to climb inside. Traffic is slow, stop and go at this time of the evening with the tourists flooding the high-traffic areas. We slowly make our way around the crescent, following the bend of the river until we stop in front of the square.

I hop out quickly and wait for the cars to pass before crossing the busy street in front of the old cathedral. The lamps are burning, and the tall banana trees cast long shadows. The live oak branches sweep low, all the way to the ground almost, and I walk slowly up the middle of the large circle, toward the monument of Andrew Jackson on horseback.

I keep going, all the way to the wide alley in front of the church, but I take a left and bypass the entrance, the place where Lara and Mark exchanged vows in that brief little drive-by ceremony.

That’s not fair—it was actually a beautiful ceremony, if technically illegal, since they didn’t have a permit to use the grounds.

Pedestrians pass me in a steady stream, and I walk up the narrow block to the corner. The last time I was here, the place was exploding with Mardi Gras revelers. It almost feels like a lifetime ago. Stas had been here.

Standing on the corner, I look up at the white stucco façade, the green-shuttered French doors lining the side of the building all the way down the block. The ever-present rainbow puddles are dotted down the center of the road, and the mist in the air surrounds the gas lanterns with mystery.

This time I reach out and touch the wall with my bare hand. I wait, quietly listening, hearing the echoes of the music, the noise of the cheering. I would stand in the wings and watch them perform and dream of one day being a star. All those dreams were destroyed in one night. Less than a night. Only a few hours.

A breeze moves past me, sweeping my hair over my shoulder, and when I turn my face in the direction it moves, I catch the flicker of a shadow. My insides jolt, and I realize how vulnerable I am alone in this space. All the pedestrians have filtered away, heading toward the river or in the opposite direction, toward Bourbon Street.

Turning on my heel, I walk steadily in the direction I came, up the narrow alley following the side of the cathedral. My steps create a curious echo, almost like two steps landing just off-time. I stop, and the second steps aren’t quick enough.

I’m definitely being followed.

Placing my hand on the wrought iron fence, I do as Stas taught me. I allow the fear to filter from my chest through my stomach, down my arms and legs, then out my fingers and toes until it’s all gone.

Feel the fear, Myshka, then let it leave you. You’re more powerful than any attacker now.

I don’t have my necklace, but I have the moves he taught me. I have the ability to run, which is the first rule of self-defense: Avoidance.

Still, I don’t run. I only take another step, continuing my progress toward Decatur Street, toward the masses of people clustered around the bars and restaurants along the river. The strange echo fades away, and I feel the presence receding. Whoever is following me is falling back, and I turn to look quickly over my shoulder.

It’s too late. No one is there.

The Lyft I order for the ride back to the hotel is stuffy. Like every other car seems to be, the faint odor of cigarette smoke saturates the fabric of the seats, and the driver takes the curves a bit too sharply. A cold sweat breaks out on my upper lip, and as soon as he pulls up in front of my hotel, I bolt out and head for that same fucking garbage can.

One Iceberg Wedge in the trash.

Stepping back, I cover my mouth with my hand. My insides are shaking, a different kind of panic filtering through my veins. I can’t defend myself from what I’m starting to fear is happening inside me. I double back to the drugstore a few blocks over, and once I’ve got what I need, I hurry back to my hotel room.

In my room, I discard my dress and bra and pull on an oversized, long-sleeved tee that once was Joshua’s. Sadly, I stole it so long ago, it no longer smells like him. I grab a hair tie and twist my long hair on top of my head in a messy bun. The cardboard box is in my hand, and I spend a minute reading the purple print over and over as if English isn’t my native language.

Easy home pregnancy test.

Oh, fuck my life.

Heartburn stings at the base of my throat. I place the box on the counter in the bathroom and wash my mouth out. I grab my toothbrush and brush my teeth. Then I grab the floss and meticulously clean each one. Then I take out my makeup remover wipes and wipe my face clean. Then I return to the bedroom.

I tap the touchpad repeatedly to wake up my laptop. Once it’s awake, I click on the icon for my Tor browser. It takes several minutes to fully load. A bottle of water is on the dresser by the large flat screen television, and I pick it up and twist off the cap.

One long drink, and I know it’s time to stop procrastinating. I have to find out.

My stomach is so tight, it feels like my bottom ribs are a corset squeezing my lungs tighter and tighter the closer I get to that cardboard box on the counter in the bathroom.

No badass tricks are going to get me out of this one.

Picking it up again, I re-read the directions.

Point the absorbent tip downward. Place the absorbent tip in urine stream for at least five seconds until thoroughly wet…

Sitting on the toilet, I shove my panties off and kick them across the slick bathroom floor then I spread my knees wide, leaning forward so I can make sure I do it right.

It’s so awkward.

Five seconds.

I count slowly in my mind.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

Five…

I take the damp thing away, setting it on the counter while I pull a handful of tissue. Reaching for the purple cap, my hand knocks the slick cardboard box. It slides across the counter like a hockey puck, landing out on the floor in front of the door leading to the hallway. I don’t have time to worry about it. I have to wait five minutes before I’ll have an answer, and my Tor browser is waiting.

The message has been sitting a while, but I hop on and type a reply.

Ice filters through my veins when I read the reply. My fears from before are back, front and center in my mind.

Shutr… I sound it out in my head. Shooter… I remember Shooter. DB is a reference to my old username, Doll Baby. I used it when I was searching for Esterhaus almost a decade ago.

Shooter had good intel—he led me to the Whitehorse Yukon Railway, which was ideal for my purposes, and he liked to be paid in Bitcoin or Ethereum, but never Litecoin.

He’s good… which makes me nervous. How did he know I might not make it back to my room safely?

My pulse thunders in my ears, and I decide not to respond. The cold realization trickles through my veins. If he’s already tracked me down to my last username, it’s too late to hide my identity. If he knows that much, he knows my IP address, which will lead him straight here.

How fast?

I run to the bathroom to retrieve my underwear. I jerk them over my hips and my eyes fall to the counter. The fucking pregnancy test. Snatching up the white plastic wand, I hold the little window to the light. Two lines. What the hell does that mean?

Searching around, I grab a pair of black leggings out of my suitcase and step into them, pulling them over my hips as I bend down for the box. I scoop it off the floor just as a sharp explosion blasts through the door at the line of my cheekbone.

I spin away as splinters of wood shoot out around me into the room, and I feel the sting of air flying past my face. I’m not hit. I drop to the floor and crawl into the bathroom, covering my mouth with my hand to quiet my breathing.

My back is against the cool wall, my butt is on the floor, and I’m staring at my bare feet, my black-painted toenails when another sharp Pop! sounds just outside the door.

Someone’s shooting their way into my room.

Someone’s using a silencer.

Adrenaline floods my veins, and the fucking nausea is back. I can’t vomit now. I remember my self-defense techniques. Krav Maga for disarming an armed attacker… With the gun pointing at my face, I’ll duck out of the line of fire and dive forward as my hands go up to grab the weapon, then I twirl taking the gun out of the shooter’s hand.

That’s how it should go. I’ve practiced this but never had to use it.

My eyes are wide, and I breathe faster, building my internal momentum, preparing to engage…

Glancing down, the pregnancy test box is still in my hand. Just before I toss it aside, my eyes land on the diagram on the back. Large squares have writing underneath them.

One line means you’re not pregnant.

Two lines means…

“Oh, fuck.” My stomach pitches just as the door blasts open.

Krav Maga flies out the window as my thoughts scatter over what I’ve just learned, what this stick I’m holding in my hand is saying to me…

I crouch lower behind the door, my heart flying out of my chest. You’d make a great mother, Myshka. My eyes squeeze shut at the memory of Stas’s words. Oh, fuck…

The intruder is in my room, looking all around, moving fast and quiet. I’m small in the corner of the bathroom, and this person is going to find me. I’ve got to think fast if I’m going to get out of this without getting shot.

I watch the reflection in the bathroom mirror. It’s a small person dressed all in black carrying a large gun. A quick swipe over the head, and the mask is off. Dark hair falls around her face. It’s a woman…

She turns slowly, and in that moment, our eyes lock in the mirror. White teeth appear with her sinister smile, and she raises her weapon, aiming right at my face. I’m still on the floor. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I’m at a complete disadvantage. The time to get in position is gone, and I can’t take a chance at getting shot. Not now.

Ducking my head, I hold out my hand—the one with the pregnancy stick. “Wait!” I shout. “Don’t shoot. Just wait… Please.”

It’s enough to stop her. She lowers the gun a fraction, studying me. “Why should I?”

“I know this is strange, but I’m begging you. Hear me out. Why are you here? Who do you work for?”

One thing I do know—neither of the assholes I killed would have anyone trying to avenge their murders.

“You’re the bitch looking for Reese Landry. I’m looking for you.” Her gun snaps back into place, aiming right at my head.

“Wait! You’re right. I was looking for him. But I have reason to believe he might be dead.”

“I have reason to believe you might be the person who killed him.”

My voice goes louder. “NO! You’re wrong! I promise you. You’re wrong. If Reese Landry is dead, it wasn’t me who did it. I just returned to the city for Mardi Gras. Before that, I was in Seattle, and before that I was in Canada.”

The shooter’s eyes narrow. “Then why were you with the old man? Why did the two of you go to Landry’s address?”

“We’re looking for information on my friend’s family. That’s all.” I hear the creaking of the trigger, and I shout louder. “Please! You have to believe me. Please, don’t shoot. I just found out I’m pregnant. See? It’s on this stick here.”

“I don’t care what you just found out. I have orders—”

“But you’re making a mistake. Just let me talk to your boss… Just don’t… Please don’t kill my baby.” Tears burn my eyes as I realize how much I mean these words, from the bottom of my soul. “Please… This baby has the best dad. Please don’t kill his child.”

Joshua flashes across my mind, and my throat aches so bad.

The eyes of the woman holding the gun flare. She grinds her teeth, and I see the muscle in her jaw move. I see the frustration in her eyes as they dart from me to the stick in my hand and back. In the flicker of an eyelash, she lowers her gun.

I just start to breathe when her face distorts and she rushes at me, pulling something small and black from her belt. Her hand flies high over her head, and I don’t have time to duck before she slams it down against my temple.

My world goes black.