“We only know about Lafitte’s because you told us to tail him. He paid cash. They don’t know he was there.”
Clenching my teeth, I exhaled. “Here’s the thing, Leon. I think that woman purposely had a name similar to Emma’s. It was a trail the NOPD didn’t find. Nevertheless, this was a setup to flush out Emma North. That isn’t happening. The NOPD needs to rule Underwood’s death as an accidental overdose or better yet, a suicide. Plant whatever you need to plant. Underwood lost funding for his editorial project. Bank foreclosed. I don’t give a shit what tragedy he was dealt. When it comes to flushing out Emma, I smell Boudreau. He’s not getting his hands on her.”
Leon leaned back. “Boudreau is doing his fucking best to get under your skin. I see that. Here’s what bothers me.”
I took my seat again. Leon Trahan was one of the people who could offer his advice. “What bothers you?” A shit ton of things bothered me.
“The motherfucker came on the scene a little under two years ago, making his name known little by little. Then about six months later, he’s making his claims to anyone who would listen.”
That wasn’t new information.
“Help me out, boss.” Leon leaned forward in his chair. “Kyle O’Brien died with the O’Briens four years ago. Don’t tell me Boudreau is some fucking Lazarus. Where the hell was he for two years?”
I stood and paced behind my desk. “It’s the part we can’t find. The missing fucking piece. Why would Kyle kill his parents, or arrange their death, and then disappear before making his claim?” I turned toward Leon. “Emma told me that the O’Briens never told her she was adopted. She found out after they died. It’s not adding up. If what Emma said is also true for Kyle, how did he even know about the Boudreau name? How did he know the girl raised as his sister is a Boudreau? The city saw Jezebel with child once. He is claiming Emma’s heritage.”
“I ain’t got no proof, but I got my gut.”
A smile came to my lips. “Leon, I’d fucking trust your gut over a locker of evidence down at NOPD. What’s your gut saying?”
“Isaiah Boudreau II is the pretty-boy mouthpiece for someone else, someone who wants to bring you down.”
“That list is fucking long.”
“I say we start crossing people off, one way or the other,” Leon proposed.
Emma
As I followed my own plan—one minute, hour, and day at a time—it was as if I was living someone else’s life. It was a life I didn’t hate, but not one I would choose. In a nutshell, it wasn’t my life, not as mine had ever been. While carrying on daily tasks, it was as if I were watching this other woman who looked like me, sounded like me, and even sometimes reasoned like me, but her actions were not mine.
Is that Rett’s goal...to change who I am?
In a matter of a week, I’d fallen into a routine of sorts.
Other than the first day when I’d awakened to find Rett in the darkness, every other day, I’d awakened alone. It had been seven days since he’d brought me to ecstasy, since I’d asked for time to get to know him, and since he’d agreed. During those seven days, Everett Ramses was sexy and domineering as he pushed for things such as the use of the blindfold. In other ways he was a perfect gentleman, lavishing me with compliments, sending gifts of jewelry, holding my hand, and twisting my insides with kisses that would dampen my panties if I were wearing any.
Our interaction was limited to nearly a week of dining.
In the real world, I would never go on six consecutive dates in six nights, and yet now, it was becoming my obsession. Whether I’d willingly given Rett power or he’d taken it before I was fully aware of his doings, the inequality of our situation ate at my consciousness.
If I were to date someone six nights in a row, it would imply that I was asked daily, or perhaps nightly. I’d be left at my door with promises of a follow-up call. Or maybe I’d awaken to a teasing text, one that reminded me why I wanted to keep seeing the person.
None of that was happening.
Although I’d brought up the subject many times, I still didn’t have my phone or internet. The other items from my hotel room had arrived. Other than the first day when Rett told me he’d return and we’d dine, each consecutive dinner was part of an assumption. Of course, that supposition was facilitated by the circumstances of my situation.
Each morning, one of my first orders of business was to open the ceiling.
I’d wake, open the ceiling, and then exercise. Breakfast would arrive at 8:30 a.m. and lunch promptly at 1:00 p.m. Between the two meals I’d shower and dress for a day of staying exactly where I was. Either before or after lunch, Ian would bring in a dress or usually two. No longer did he wheel in the rack.
Many days, I spent with the ceiling open and a good book from the bookcase. Other days, or for a few hours on some days, I’d attempt to write, to compose a story that I was beginning to enjoy. I reasoned if I liked writing it, others may enjoy reading it. If I didn’t, why should anyone else?
The story I was writing wasn’t about my life. I didn’t want to give my current situation that much validity. Instead, it was a story I’d made up based on nuggets of information from both Rett and Miss Guidry. It was the story of a woman brought to New Orleans, not as a whore, the lineage I’d been told was mine, but as the friend—a modern-day lady-in-waiting—to a bride. It was a story of adjustment, growth, and the importance of friendship.
Did my friends wonder about me?
What did Ross think had happened?
At six each evening, I’d stop my writing or reading and focus on preparing for our date.