Elora had a good luck charm. A little silver Saint Sebastian medal. Case gave it to her as a love token that twelve-year-old summer. His mama had gotten it for him when he made the sixth-grade baseball team at school up in Kinter, because Saint Sebastian is the patron saint of athletes, and I remember the way Elora batted her eyelashes at him when she slipped it into her pocket. From then on, she carried it with her all the time. All the protection she ever thought she needed.
I wish I had a charm of my own now. I reach for the blue pearl around my neck.
But it’s not enough to make me feel safe.
So I count the shiny objects in my palm. Three pennies. Five pop tops. Two bottle caps. And three paper clips.
Exactly thirteen.
Then I lay them out on the windowsill. One by one.
The next day, the Mystic Rose is slammed. June is always peak season for day-trippers down from New Orleans. They do way more looking than buying – nobody goes home with that ugly Himalayan salt lamp – but Honey still needs me all day. So I don’t get a chance to see Hart. Or anybody else. And that’s fine with me. I need some time to think through what happened last night.
The whole time I’m working, though, I keep seeing Zale.
His eyes, especially.
That strange blue fire.
And I hear the echo of his voice inside my head.
I have a couple flashes, too, while I’m wiping fingerprints off the glass countertop and again while I’m dusting the crystals. I’m looking through Elora’s eyes. I see the storm and the bayou so clear. I feel the force of the wind. But I can’t ever see who it is she’s so terrified of.
What’s the point in having this stupid gift if I never see anything useful?
Honey makes pork chops and gravy that night, and I’m helping her wash the dishes when I finally ask, “Are there any new families around here? Since last summer?”
She gives me a funny look. “Why?”
I shrug. “I saw someone I didn’t know yesterday. Looked like a local. Not a tourist.”
Honey wipes her hands on the dish towel. “What kind of someone?”
“A boy.”
“Oh. Well, let’s see.” She hands me the towel to dry my hands. “Some new people moved in last fall. Bought the old Landry place, out near Blackbird Point. Cormier, I think their name is.” She covers the leftover pork chops with foil and puts the plate in the fridge. “I know they have a couple girls. Seems like they might have a little boy, too.”
“A little boy?”
“Maybe six or seven years old.”
“Oh.” Honey has no idea that when I say a “boy” these days, I don’t really mean a six-year-old. “Anybody else?”
“No. Not that I know of.” She shrugs. “But there’s an awful lot of swamp out there. Plenty of places to hole up and not be bothered, if you’ve a mind to live that way.”
I nod and put the clean silverware in the drawer. Like it’s no big deal.
But I keep thinking about those ice-fire eyes. The burning blue of them.
“You know, tomorrow’s your birthday,” Honey says after a few minutes. “I thought maybe we could get away for the day.
Get Bernadette to watch the store. Go up to New Orleans. Do a little shopping. Maybe take Evie and Sera –”
“I don’t wanna do anything.”
“I know it’s hard,” she goes on. “But it’s still your birthday. You deserve –”
“My birthday’s canceled this year.”
Probably forever.
Honey sighs. “You sure that’s what you want, Sugar Bee?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”
Honey turns back toward the sink. She wrings out a wet cloth and wipes crumbs from the countertop. “It might be a nice time for you all to celebrate Elora. To mark that special relationship in some way. Honor her.”
“You mean honor her memory.”
“It might help. That’s all I’m saying.” Honey’s voice is gentle. “It might bring you some peace.”
“I don’t need peace,” I tell her. “I need to know where she is.”
I escape to my bedroom and lie down in the cool air. My mind keeps going back to that drawing of Sander’s. étranger. The stranger with the missing face.
Someone we don’t know.
It could be Zale. The stranger outside my window. But what if it’s Dempsey Fontenot, come back home to steal another summer girl? Or Case? His familiar features distorted by rage and jealousy.