The sense of embarrassment in my stomach twists and churns. There’s something about Miranda’s words that makes me feel uneasy. To say those things to him, to convince him that I mean him no harm, is to say exactly what he wants to hear.
But how can I gaze into his eyes and say the words when I know that, in my heart, I mean exactly the opposite? How can I reclaim his trust with the intention of ultimately shattering it to pieces?
And even if I tried to say the words, would he believe me?
I don’t know how Miranda can do this. Or my parents, for that matter. This is all much more emotionally taxing than I expected.
Miranda says that this is my only option. And she’s always right about these things. But I can’t help but wonder—is there a way that I can go through with this that doesn’t seem quite so dark? I suddenly find myself treading a thin, wobbling line between right and wrong—and I’m starting to forget which side is which.
Liam doesn’t answer any of my text messages later that night, or on Sunday either. I try calling him, only to be greeted by the clipped words of his voice message. This is William Hawthorne. Leave your name, phone number, and a brief message and I will return your call at my earliest convenience. I begin to dial number idly, almost reflexively, just so I can hear the deep timbre of his voice.
By the time Monday afternoon rolls around, I still haven’t heard back from him, and I’m starting to feel restless, cooped up in my cramped hotel room. I can hear the roar of a Mardi Gras parade somewhere off in the distance—yelps of trumpets, a crescendo of cheers and hollering, and the mechanical grind of the floats.
I try to ignore it. There’s an infomercial playing on the television, advertising some kind of ridiculous all-in-one spaghetti maker, but it’s hard to keep focus. I just stare blankly into the glow of the television screen, waiting as the minutes tick by, hoping that perhaps this minute, he’ll call. I stare at the clock. It’s nearly five-thirty.
I wonder if he’s still in the office. Or maybe he’s gone to a jazz club in the French Quarter to blow off some steam.
The possibility occurs to me that he may have found a new girl to entertain him, and I’m surprised to feel a tight, painful squeeze of jealousy in my chest.
The thought is almost too much to bear.
I grab my purse and a light jacket. I have no idea where he’ll be, or even if he’s out on the town at all—but if I stay in this room a moment longer, I’m positive that I’m going to go mad.
I step out into the cool evening air and grab the first cab that I can find. We roll into the French Quarter, following the same path that Thomas took when he drove Liam and me to Irvin Mayfield’s Jazz Playhouse. I have the cab driver drop me off on Bourbon Street. Tourists and partiers spill off the sidewalk, soaking up the pre-Mardi Gras buzz, heaps of beads looped around their neck.
A tall man with a goatee approaches me. He slurs, “You’re pretty.”
He holds his can of beer out, like he’s offering it to me, but I’m not sure what he wants me to do with it—take a sip?
Like that’s going to happen.
I tiptoe around him and hurry along the sidewalk, turning my head this way and that in the faraway hope that I’ll recognize Liam’s brown hair and broad shoulders among the crowd.
My phone chirps. My heart soaring, I grab for it in my purse. Could it be him?
But it’s not Liam. Rather, to my surprise, it’s Riley: Did I just see you on Bourbon Street?
I twist around, half-expecting to see Riley’s mop of hair in my vicinity, but I only see strangers.
Probably, I text back. Are you nearby?
I’m at Maison Bourbon, up on the balcony.
I look behind me. Maison Bourbon is only a block behind me, a grubby-looking brick building on the corner. Black wooden signs hang from beneath the balcony: MAISON BOURBON - DEDICATED TO THE PRESERVATION OF JAZZ.
I turn on my heel and stroll over to the building, squeezing past a few people on my way inside. Upstairs, the balcony is massive, wrapping around both sides of the building. I look right, then left, unsure of where to find Riley.
I decide to try the left side first, since it seems a little less crowded. I push past a man and a woman whose limbs seem to be tangled together. They don’t seem to notice how they’re spilling their drinks on themselves. I sidle around a pair of men sporting goatees and apparently discussing philosophy. I hear snippets of conversation as I pass: Nietzsche. Goethe.
No Riley here. I turn around to try the right side of the balcony. I find him at the very edge, sipping from a frosty bottle of Abita Ale and quietly gazing down at the revelers below.
“You better pace yourself, or you’re going to get out of control,” I try to joke. He turns.
“You think so?” he says, smiling.
“I’m thinking it’ll get a little bit sloppy,” I tease.
He takes another sip. “That’s just a risk that I’ll have to take.” He looks down at my empty hands. “You’re not drinking anything.”
“Not thirsty,” I say, even though my throat is parched.
“Now I can tell you’ve been out of town for too long. It’s not about thirst,” he teases, winking kindly at me. “Mardi Gras Day is tomorrow. Half the city’s gotten an early start.”
I force a giggle, even though I don’t really feel much like laughing. My eyes distractedly sweep across the cheery faces on the bustling street. Still no Liam.
“I’m not really in the mood tonight.”
Riley says lightly, “Then you might not have chosen the best neighborhood for an evening stroll. What’re you doing here, anyway?”
“Looking for…someone,” I say vaguely.
“Could that someone be Liam?”
“Why? Have you heard anything?” I say a little too quickly.
“Well, no,” he says cautiously. “I just asked because I knew you were trying to…uh, find his inner romantic, I guess. How’s that going, anyway?”
“Fine,” I say curtly. “It’s fine.”
Riley nods, sensing that I don’t want to discuss it any further. He offers me a sip of his ale, but I shake my head. We stand beside each other silently, leaning against the railing and listening to the sounds of live jazz spill out from the venue.
“So Judge Connelly has had quite the scandal,” Riley says finally. “I’d say that the timing worked out nicely, with you just returning to town and all. But then again, I don’t believe in coincidences.”
I snap my head over to him. “What scandal? What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t heard?” Riley says, raising an eyebrow. “They’ve taken away his license and he’s pending trial for a DUI. This was his fourth offense, can you believe that? The rumor is that they’re going to lock him up and throw away the key.”
I look back down at the crowd below us, stunned at this new information.
Judge Connelly will now know exactly the pain he inflicted on my parents. He’ll get to experience the lifetime of loneliness and what-ifs and could-haves, counting the years from his prison cell.
This is verging on poetic.
I can feel it bubbling up inside me, light and buoyant, before I even realize what’s happening. As my lips part and my shoulders shake, I realize that I’m laughing.
“Are you all right?” asks Riley, looking slightly alarmed at my unexpected reaction.
“I’m better than all right,” I say between my giggles. “God, this is incredible. Tell me more. Give me details.”
“Apparently he refused a breathalyzer, but they made him come down to the station and they tested his blood alcohol content. It was 0.18. More than double the legal limit,” says Riley. “But what I’m still trying to figure out is—how did you have a hand in this? Did you meet him for cocktails or something and then convince him to go for a joyride?”
“I didn’t even know he was that drunk,” I say. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But still. I just found the opportunity to drop some evidence into his car, tol
d the police that someone was driving erratically, and let them handle the rest.”
“Evidence,” Riley repeats, knitting his brow. “What do you mean?”
“Open alcohol bottles, mostly. Vodka in his water bottle. Enough to get him in trouble,” I reply. “I’d seen him around town drinking from his flask like his life depended on it, and I knew that they’d find alcohol in his system. But I never knew that it was going to be that much.”
Riley stares down at the street, his eyes wide and thoughtful. “You are diabolical. You know that, right?”
“I hope that’s a compliment,” I say nervously.
He turns to me. “Oh, definitely. The judge could’ve killed someone on the road that day, he was so drunk. And according to the papers, he’d been making a habit of using his position to sweep all those DUIs under the rug. It was about time that he actually got what he deserved. There’s zero question about that.”
I can’t help but smile. I realize that this is the first time in years that I’ve felt this way—in this moment, I am truly, freely, undeniably happy.
It’s something that I never expected. Embarking on this dark journey of vengeance, I had figured that any victory I’d find would bring me a grim kind of satisfaction, but not much more. I knew it would never break my parents out of jail, or give me my childhood back. But still, this felt like something that I had to do.
But now I have a taste of what victory feels like, and I want more.
I feel my breath hitching in my throat, building with anticipation. Barbara and Charles Hawthornes’ faces, pinched and indifferent, float to the forefront of my mind.
I’ve let too much time slip away from me these past few days, I realize. I look back down at the street, my resolve hardening.
I need to find Liam.
And this time, I won’t let fear control my fate. This time, I’m not holding back. I’m prepared to go all the way.
12
There’s nothing quite comparable to the roar of the streets of New Orleans on Mardi Gras Day. The air is filled with the sounds of excited chatter, the intermittent yelp of joy, and the metallic scrape of fold-out chairs being dragged onto the sidewalk. It’s only a few minutes before ten o’clock, when the parade is set to begin. The anticipation is palpable, pressing into my skin, making my heart thump.
Or maybe that’s just me.
I weave through the chairs, ladders, and jostling crowd, navigating down St. Charles Avenue, toward Napoleon Avenue. Where Liam said he would be. Despite the radio silence since his parents’ party, I’m hoping that he hasn’t changed his Mardi Gras plans. I’m hoping I’ll be able to find him among the din.
At this point, hope is all I have.
Somewhere in the distance, a mechanical engine groans, followed by the muted cheer of the crowd. The parade’s begun. I elbow my way more quickly through the throng of people. I pass Milan Street. General Pershing Street. I can see the intersection for Napoleon Avenue just up ahead.
The muscles beneath my skin shifts, tense and expectant.
Suddenly, someone shrieks into my ear, and I nearly jump a foot into the air. I twist to see a girl, pink-faced and barely a teenager, smiling widely to a boy across the street. Her boyfriend? Crush? He waves back at her, then cups his hand and yells something unintelligible. Neither of them seem to notice me.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” the girl shrieks again. I wince as the sound distorts in my ear. I pick up the pace.
The screeching lingers in my ears, and it’s as if the girl is following me down the street when I finally make it to Napoleon Avenue. It rises, twists, and lengthens like a snake in the blackness of my thoughts. It embodies every ounce of trepidation in the back of my throat, every flutter of fear in my chest.
You can do this.
Miranda’s voice rises soft and sweet in my mind. It’s what she said to me before we parted ways, before I returned to New Orleans, before this all began. Her words are like a soothing lullaby; the snake coils and slinks away.
I nudge my way to the corner of the intersection and scan the faces around me. There are round faces, young and old faces, faces with flat noses and wide eyes, and faces already hazy with booze—but no Liam. Not that I can see from here.
I take a step back and nearly stumble into a ladder behind me. I twist, expecting to see a frightened child looking down at me from the ladder seat, or the angry faces of his parents—but there’s no one. The seat is painted purple and decorated with streamers. A stuffed animal rests slumped in the corner. I glance around—the family must have just stepped away.
An idea hits me. Being careful not to knock into the seat, I scramble up the ladder. From this vantage point up here, I can see the crowd without obstruction. My eyes sweep across the faces in front of me, searching for that familiar dark hair, those piercing pale blue eyes. I twist around on the ladder, my heart thudding painfully, my eyes still scanning the crowd desperately.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s smack in the middle of the intersection, standing in a grassy pedestrian island, with his arms neatly crossed over his cotton white shirt. A pair of loose-fitting black jeans hang from his hips. Throngs of people press in on either side of him.
How can he look so good without even trying? I find myself wondering. My pulse begins to quicken.
“Hey!” someone angrily calls behind me. I turn to see a man and a woman, both in their early thirties. The man carries a young boy on his shoulders, who is gazing at me with a deep look of curiosity.
Ah, the owners of the ladder.
Before they can make a scene, I leap off the ladder and dash toward the curb. The clanging and grinding noises of the floats are getting louder. Stepping out onto the street, I can see them inching further and further south down Napoleon Avenue—directly towards me.
“Lady! In the pink dress! Get outta the road!” screams a uniformed police officer from the corner. He takes a step toward me angrily.
It’s now or never.
I dash across the street, hurtling into crowded pedestrian aisle. There’s a few shouts of protest and muttered grumblings as I nudge my way over to Liam. I come to a stop right beside him, close enough to breathe in the familiar musky scent of his cologne.
I gaze up at him expectantly, triumphantly. Any minute now, he’ll look down and acknowledge me.
To my surprise, he doesn’t even flick his eyes over. He stares resolutely at the road, his head tilted toward the floats trundling ever closer, as if he is blind to my presence.
But I can see it—the twitch in his jaw.
It tells me everything.
He knows I’m standing here. And he’s determined to ignore me.
“Liam,” I say softly, but my voice is swept away by the din. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air. I’ve never been a loud girl, not even when I’ve tried. But today, I need to summon every decibel I’ve got.
“LIAM!”
The muscle in his jaw jumps again, but his icy blue eyes are frozen, locked on the road.
“Liam, I know you’re angry with me,” I shout, my chest heaving with each word. “I know you’re afraid that I’m a gold-digger, but I promise you that’s not true.”
A few heads turn curiously at the word “gold-digger.” But when Liam finally looks over at me, I only have eyes for him.
“I shouldn’t have talked to your parents. I know that now. I’m sorry,” I shout, and miraculously my voice doesn’t quaver despite the lie. “I made a mistake. It’s just…I’m so excited about you that I can’t think straight. I’ve just never met anyone like you before.”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying me with his piercing eyes. The first float, a jeering pink face wearing a three point jester hat, begins to roll down the block. A fresh wave of cheers and hollers erupts among the crowd, and arms raise wildly in the air all around us, eager to catch a loop of beads.
But as Liam stares at me—into me—it feels like the entire world has begun to slip away. The crowd become
s nothing more than a shapeless blur of muted colors. The clamoring voices are nothing more than a hum in the background. It’s like we’re the only souls left in an echoing, ghostly world.
How is it possible—the way that he makes my skin tremble with his mere look? The way my breath catches in the back of my throat, hot with anticipation, waiting to hear what he has to say? There’s no escaping the magic he holds over me.
Shake yourself out of it. Focus on the job, I try to tell myself. But I can’t. It’s impossible.
He takes a step toward me. My heart swells.
“How did you know I would be here?” he asks, his voice hard.
“You told me to meet you,” I say breathlessly. “You sent me a text message last week, before…” My voice trails off, unable to describe the incident that got me in trouble in the first place.
“Oh,” he snaps. “That’s right. I had forgotten about that.”
Feeling encouraged that we at least have a dialogue going, I press on: “I was surprised to find you here, down with the crowd. I’d expect you to be up on some balcony with your family, sipping champagne or something.”
“The view is better here. Besides, I prefer my own company.” He looks down at me sharply. When he speaks again, his voice is laced with anger. And despite his low volume, I can hear every word. “You shouldn’t have spoken with my parents. But it’s not only that that I’m mad about.”
“What do you mean?” I ask nervously.
“I never invited you there in the first place. In fact, I told you that you shouldn’t go. But you did it anyway.”
“I don’t think you ever said the word shouldn’t, exactly…” I say, shifting my eyes nervously.
“You just don’t get it. It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, irritated. “You defied me.”
Hush Hush #1 Page 11
