TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  "No." The word shot out of me. I didn't know why. I only knew that I didn't want to tell him. Didn't want to tell him about the car. This was the Garden District, mecca for tourists. They were everywhere. Walking and driving, going slow, taking it all in. Part of me felt so foolish. And yet, and yet another part of me wasn't convinced I was overreacting. The blue sedan leaving from across from Aidan's house at the exact moment I did. Four or five different times our paths crossed. The quiet, off-the-beaten-track street.

  The matchbook, with its cryptic warning: Do you have any idea what you're doing?

  "Didn't know you were a runner," he murmured as another possibility trickled through me. The email. The meeting. The car.

  Maybe they were all linked.

  Maybe somebody else was watching.

  "Were you going somewhere specific?"

  "No, I..." The lie came easily. Manufacturing a smile, I looked back at him. "Can't do all your research on the Internet."

  Never looking away from me, he grabbed his t-shirt and lifted it to wipe the sweat from his face. "Depends upon how safe you want to play it."

  The sun. I knew that it beat down on me.

  But instead of heat, it was cold that trickled through me.

  I'd stopped playing it safe the moment I stepped off the plane.

  "Tell me," Aidan added, quieter this time. "What exactly are you trying to research?"

  The strangest wave of calm came over me. "You."

  He stilled.

  But my heart started to pound.

  "Your world," I added. "What you see when you step outside. I wanted to explore where live—"

  "The unknown," he murmured silkily, and this time when he reached for me, his hand was open, his fingers against my elbow, nudging me to move. "My favorite thing."

  He led.

  I followed.

  I had the unmistakable impression that was the only way Aidan Cross allowed.

  The simple arched opening stood a stark contrast between two worlds, the buzz of cars and concrete on one side, shaded crypts on the other. I slipped through the entry, toward the elaborate houses for the dead, all lined up in their own macabre neighborhood, tidy rows with faded flowers out front, and statuary standing in welcome.

  Lafayette Cemetery.

  Lifting my camera, I pretended to frame a picture of a crumbling Virgin Mary, while I scanned from person to person, the older couple holding hands and the group of men in business suits, the heavily tatted girl and the young woman with a blond pony tail pushing a stroller...

  Somewhere among them, someone waited for me.

  Someone wanted to talk to me.

  All I had to do was lose Aidan.

  And hope that the right person was watching...

  "Don't move."

  Lost there, planning my escape, I looked up, and for a moment everything stopped. He stood there, a few feet away, in that unsettling still way of his, with his phone lifted and his eyes narrow, focused—on me. Holding me there, locked so, so tight in a moment that wouldn't let go. Capturing me.

  The wind blew. Warm. I could feel it. I could feel it caress the dampness of my body. But it didn't cool. There was no cooling, not in July, not with Aidan Cross watching me, so, so steady. But the wind did keep blowing, lifting the little strands of hair that had worked free during my run.

  "Take out your pony tail."

  He had a way of talking, so soft and commanding, his voice like black magic, that I did as he asked, my hands lifting, my fingers sliding the band free, until the rest of my hair was whipping in the warm breeze.

  "Perfect," he said.

  Perfect.

  The word did wicked, crazy things to my sense of comprehension.

  I stood there, stood there in the play of cemetery shadows, among the crypts and statues, in broad daylight, in my shorts and t-shirt, but for a moment, a crazy, dangerous moment, I felt exposed, stripped bare, as if everyone could see—

  Because they could. Small crowds gathered, a few groups behind Aidan, one off to his side, two women hovering back and another in a pink floppy hat partially concealed by a giant cross, many of them lifting their own cameras. But not at me. At him. At Aidan Cross. Tall and dark and alone, alone among hundreds, surrounded by an invisible fence while he took pictures of some random woman with her hair blowing in the wind.

  But I wasn't a random woman, I knew. I was his mystery woman from the night of the signing, my picture splashed all over social media...

  "Aidan." With a slash of warning in my eyes, I stepped toward him. "We have an audience."

  His shrug told me he didn't care.

  A few groups broke away. That one poor woman by the cross looked like she was seeing a ghost—or an apparition. The two closest women turned to capture him in the back of their selfie.

  Any of them. Any of them could be my informant.

  Or none of them.

  "What were you even doing?" I asked. "I don't need pictures of me—"

  "I do."

  Captured Moments

  Two words. That's all they were. But they slipped through me and held me there, motionless.

  "There are moments," he said so quietly only I could hear, "that I have to have."

  My throat went dry.

  "—to keep." His eyes. They were so dark, but somehow the blue, steelier than usual, gleamed. And I didn't understand, didn't know how that was possible. "That's how...it starts."

  "How what starts?" I made myself ask, even though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to know.

  "Everything."

  Vaguely, I was aware of a new group off to the side, of a tour guide rambling on in dramatic fashion about one of the tombs. I was aware of tourists with cameras, some aimed toward the crumbling statue of an angel—some aimed toward us. But I couldn't make myself connect with any of that. I couldn't make myself care, not with that one word—everything—hanging there between us.

  The blast of cold, it was gone. There was only the relentless burn of the sun, the humidity so thick I could barely breathe, and Aidan, lifting his camera toward me once again.

  I stood there, with my hair blowing, unintentionally posed, and watched him.

  "You still don't know what I mean?" he asked.

  There were so many ways I could answer that. So many answers playing through me. "No," I said, wanting his words—his—not my own.

  He lowered his camera. "Fuel for a fire," he said, slipping closer to me.

  I stepped back, but the rusty iron fence surrounding the crypt behind me prevented me from taking another.

  "Inspiration. One moment leads to the next, then the next..." Closer now, he lifted a hand to slide the flyaway hair behind my ear. "But none of that can happen without that one perfect moment that triggers...everything."

  Everything.

  There was that word again.

  "And then there's a story," he said, and something inside me slipped, slipped hard, because of course—of course he was talking about writing. That was his world, his life. The only reason I was here.

  "So that moment," I said, veering to where he was, not the disturbing place where my thoughts wanted to go. "What did you see? What could you not risk...losing?"

  His eyes met mine. "You."

  And for the second time since we entered the cemetery, I couldn't breathe.

  You.

  Me.

  The wind was still blowing. The wind was blowing hot and hard, carrying with it a low, steady rush and the murmurs of those around us, the whispers of all those unseen. And I didn't understand how he did it, spoke so quietly, his voice barely a rasp, but drowned out everything else.

  You.

  Me.

  "Your eyes," he went on, not moving, just standing there watching me, watching me so, so steadily. "That's what caught me," he said. "That's what stopped me. I looked over and saw you standing by the iron gate, alone, with the wind in your hair, and your eyes—it was like a punch to the gut."

  Breathe, I told myself
r />   Breathe, I screamed.

  But I couldn't.

  I couldn't breathe.

  I could barely think.

  Words. I needed words. A question. Something intelligent. "Is that a good thing?" I asked.

  Finally, the granite of his expression cracked. Finally a corner of his mouth lifted. "For me, yes."

  I tried for a playful smile. "Gotta admit, no one has ever compared my eyes to a gut punch before."

  "Then no one has seen what I saw."

  "Which was what I asked," I reminded. "Be more specific. I want to know."

  Shadows slipped and fell, capturing Aidan even though he didn't move. "Which you wants to know? Kendall the expose' writer—or the real you, the one you don't want me to see?"

  The urge to look away was strong.

  I didn't let myself.

  "Will my answer change yours?" I asked, as I had the day before.

  Two little boys darted up beside us, one running, the other chasing. Both with rocks in their hands. Both laughing.

  It wasn't until they ran on that Aidan answered. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to know who I'm talking to."

  "You're talking to me," I said, and finally I did look away, to check on our audience. Only the two women snapping selfies remained.

  "Vulnerable," he said. "Your eyes looked vulnerable. But only for a moment, then strength took over, like a mask sliding into place, hiding the moment of weakness before anyone could see it."

  Vulnerable. Weakness. They were not words I liked. "And that's what you wanted to remember?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  His shoulders rose, fell, emphasizing the growing dampness to his snug-fitting t-shirt. "A scene—a situation. An opening. A turning point."

  For a story.

  "Maybe a black moment," he added.

  "Does that mean you're putting me in a book?" I asked.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "Maybe I already have."

  The thought streamed through me, leaving an odd, fevered shiver everywhere it touched.

  Kendall the interviewer took over—Kendall the interviewer had to. "So that's how you do it," I said, moving deeper along the path. "Where your ideas come from? You look for moments—"

  His laugh followed me. "I don't look for them."

  I kept walking, carefully scanning the groups, wondering who had sent me the email. Male or female. Young or old.

  A friend of his.

  A former lover.

  Someone who had never been friend or lover, but firmly on the other side.

  "They're just there," he said, passing a glowing white, dome-like crypt. "The key is paying attention."

  Which he did. To everything.

  Which was going to make it hard to gather information he didn't want me to have.

  I watched him, the way he watched everything. His height helped, placing him above everyone else. But it was more than that. It was the way he was always monitoring, like a human surveillance camera. Observing. Recording.

  "Are all your characters based on real people? Like Mama Dauphine?"

  He went down on a knee, inspecting a rusty hinge. "Most."

  "But not all?"

  "Not all."

  "What about Jonas Marchant?" The no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners, drop-dead sexy but deeply troubled police detective Aidan explored in almost every book. Protagonist... victim... villain. His role changed from story to story.

  Sometimes, scene to scene.

  Breath—

  —to breath.

  "Is he real?" I asked.

  Aidan twisted to look at me.

  "Is he you?" I pressed.

  Aidan laughed. "I'm hardly a cop."

  But the similarities were impossible to miss—tall, dark-haired, reclusive.

  Laser-smart.

  "You're both determined," I pointed out. Stubborn. "You both like to win."

  Aidan's eyes met mine. "No one likes to be played."

  "You both live alone."

  Because they'd both lost.

  "But I only have a pen," Aidan said. "Jonas has a badge."

  "And yet you both see everything," I countered. "You notice little things." Like the screw missing in the hinge. "Nothing gets by either of you."

  The shadow. It was back in his eyes, even though not a single shadow fell anywhere near him. "Everyone has blind spots," he said. "Even Jonas."

  The woman was back, too, the star-struck one in the floppy hat, ducking behind a tomb as Aidan looked in her direction.

  I looked back at him, wondering how it was possible for someone to look so alone, when surrounded by so many.

  "Don't move," I said, tearing a page out of his own book.

  Slowly, he turned back toward me.

  "Please," I said, unfastening my phone from the running band around my arm. "Stay there—right there." With the dirt and gravel path winding behind him, weathered tombs lined up on both sides, like small, tired houses. "This is one of those moments," I said. One I wanted to remember. Not the actual picture. I did need those for my article, and the setting was perfect.

  But what I wanted was the look on his face, the shadow in full sunshine.

  That's what I wanted to save.

  Remember.

  With my phone to my face, I watched him for a long moment, standing there so tall and strong and vital, so alive but so...

  Dead.

  The word almost sent me to my knees.

  Alone.

  Dead.

  Those were not the adjectives I anticipated using for Aidan Cross.

  I captured a few quick shots, but then he was looking away, down, toward the phone still in his hands, and the lines of his face tightened.

  "I have to take care of something," he said, and with that he was turning—

  "Aidan," I called.

  "Five minutes," he said, and everything was different. He was more business-like, but brusque, too. Angry. Maybe even worried. "I need you to wait here."

  He vanished around the corner, and with him several small groups moved on, too. Part of me wanted to laugh. Part of me wanted to hurry after them and tell them to mind their own business. They'd worked so hard to pretend they were only interested in the crypts—

  But Aidan Cross was one of New Orleans favored sons. People knew he lived here, and they wanted a glimpse. They were fascinated.

  That, I reminded myself, was why I was here.

  I was no different than they were.

  Except I wasn't pretending.

  Except that I was.

  I was pretending every second of every minute of every hour that this was no big deal. Just an assignment. A mere stepping stone in my life.

  But the truth—

  The truth was becoming harder to deny.

  "Hey."

  The urgent voice jarred me. I spun to find a pale young woman with long dark hair standing behind me. An intricate tattoo circled her neck, like a chain choker, with a bleeding heart slightly off-center from her throat. That was the first thing I noticed. It was hard not to stare.

  And the rush inside me was immediate. "Hi—"

  "You...you're the one who was just with the writer guy, right?" she asked.

  Writer guy?

  I made myself look up, at her face, where purple shadows beneath her eyes accentuated the lack of color to her skin. "Yes," I said, alert. "Are you—"

  "Here." She thrust out her hand—equally pale, thin, tatted around each finger. "This is for you."

  I stood there, staring down at the cardboard between her fingers, not understanding. Not connecting.

  "That's not mine," I started, but she didn't let me finish.

  "You said you were with the writer—"

  "I am." And then the understanding started. And the connections. I saw the matchbook, small and burgundy, identical to the one I'd found in my purse after the book signing, "What's this?" I asked, taking it from her hands.

  "Some kid gave it to me," she said, looking confused. She glanc
ed around, looking toward the far end of the pathway. "He was just there."

  My heart kicked hard.

  No one was there now.

  "A kid?" I asked.

  Her eyes were wider now, drenched with a fear that hadn't been there before. "He said someone gave it to him to give to you, but he had to go."

  "Did you see anyone?"

  "No," she said, backing away. "I gotta go." And then she did, she turned, and in her skimpy black tank and shorts, hurried back to a group of equally pale, equally malnourished and tatted kids hanging around one of the gated tombs. The second she reached them, they all glanced back at me, then cut out.

  I looked down. I opened the matchbook. But even before I saw inside, I knew. I already knew what I would find.

  Words.

  Neatly written.

  A question, just like before.

  Do you really think he's going to let

  you get away with this?

  I stood there in the cemetery, surrounded by tombs and strangers and the dead, with the sun beating from a pure blue sky and the wind kicking dust in every direction, and felt something dark and cold whisper through me.

  Someone wanted me to know they were watching. And someone wanted me to know they knew something, something they very much wanted to tell me.

  But that it wasn't safe to approach me.

  Not with Aidan—

  I spun around, searching the long row of tombs. Groups of people crowded the dusty gravel path, walking, looking, posing for morbid pictures at the more ornate grave-sites. It would be so easy for my emailer to hide in plain sight.

  Aidan told me to wait, but I couldn't, not when everything inside me screamed with the need to find whoever sent me the matchbook and ask what they knew, demand they tell me why they'd arranged to meet. What was so important.

  Two things stopped me in the same heartbeat: the memory of the car, steadily tracking me while I ran through the Garden District—and the small group clustered around a plain, weathered tomb. It was boxy, more grey than white, with nothing all that special about it. No ornate iron fence separating it from the rest of the cemetery. No exquisite statuary. No elaborate marker. And yet, the crowd grew, nearly everyone in the vicinity approaching then stopping, staring down. Some lifted their cameras. Others went down on their knees. One woman, younger with long white hair and a black veil, made a quick sign of the cross.