Page 87 of Bourbon & Blood

First thing in the morning, I connected to the houseboat’s Wi-Fi and checked in with Dorian and Marcus. They were relieved to hear from me, and both expressed surprise when I regaled them with the tale of our stop at the bookstore the day before and the big Cajun cookout at his father’s place.

I didn’t share anything about La Croix’s dad and his treatment of his son; that sounded too personal and just not like something that should be shared.

La Croix did some things around his place, got some laundry going in his single washer/dryer combo – which I had never seen one before. I especially had never seen one in the kitchen like his was – but it worked, I guess. I mean, spared some extra plumbing drama I guess when it came to the location of his pipes and stuff.

It thunderstormed outside, and we spent part of the day on the couch. He streamed something on television, while I laid back on the couch with my legs over his lap and read another of my books. It was nice, low key, and I loved how he smoothed his hand up and down my leg absently as he was engrossed in whatever he was watching.

It was nice.

Very domestic…

…and it did my heart good.

I almost wished I could have two days off in a row to indulge in it more fully. I admit a sort of wistful regret when it came time for him to run me home.

It was cutting it close once we reached all the way back to the city and he pulled up in front of my apartment building. I got off the bike and turned, but he didn’t kill the engine or make to follow me. I gave him a questioning look, and he said, “Come give your ol’ man a kiss, baby. I got business to attend to.”

I pouted but kissed him goodbye.

“Be careful,” I warned, and he nodded. I got myself up to my apartment just in time to change and really hoof it in to work.

* * *

I walked home,and it was the first night in a while I had done it myself – no La Croix outside waiting for me. When I got up to my apartment, I checked my phone for texts and had one from him.

La Croix: Sorry cher, tomorrow night, I promise. Stay safe, lock your doors.

I smiled faintly, texted him back the kissy face emoji, and fixed myself some dinner before settling on the couch to watch a movie.

I woke up to my phone buzzing across the coffee table and light streaming in through the windows.

I winced and shaded my eyes with one hand while groping for the phone with my other one.

“Hello?” I answered, before it could go to voicemail even though it was an unknown number.

“Hello, Miss Bouchard? Miss Alina Bouchard?”

“Yes, speaking,” I said politely to the authoritative voice over the line.

“This is Margaret Torrance out of the St. Mary Parish’s medical examiner’s office,” she said. “I’m so sorry to have to ask you this, but I’m going to need you to come in for an identification if at all possible.”

My heart seized in my breast.

“Identification?” I echoed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I-I live in the city,” I said, my brain screaming big red warning sirens, a sound like static rushing through my ears.

“I could arrange a ride if you need—” she said.

“Um, yeah, let me see what I can do,” I said. “You need me now?” I asked.

“Yes ma’am, if at all possible—”

“Okay, let me see if I can get a ride. I’ll call yourightback, okay?” I said out loud. In my head I said,oh, shit.

As soon as I got off the phone, I immediately tried to call La Croix. It went straight to voicemail. I swallowed hard, and hands shaking, scrolled through my numbers – he’d added a bunch yesterday while we’d sat on the couch.

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