Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 124479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
He was becoming tethered. Not in the way the curse tethered him—imposed, invasive, broadcasting his position to anyone with ears trained to the frequency. This tethering had grown from the inside. Delphine had moved past the stage where her removal would leave the structure intact. She occupied load-bearing positions in his investigation, his defenses, his understanding of what the months ahead demanded.
But the structural argument served as cover for the simpler fact, which was that the room without her in it held a vacancy that the room with her in it did not.
“You were right,” he said. “At the table.”
“I was right about several things at the table. Be specific.”
His chest contracted around what might have been laughter and did not fully arrive. “About carrying things alone. About making decisions about your life from a distance you didn’t agree to.”
“Maman has been saying versions of it for decades, hasn’t she.”
“I didn’t listen.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m listening.”
She lifted her head. Her chin rested on his chest, and her eyes found his in the near-dark. Sodium lamplight from Esplanade caught the planes of her face through the glass.
“Listening is a start,” she said. “Following through is the part where your pattern usually breaks.”
He did not argue.
“I know,” he said.
She held his gaze.
Outside, a second trumpet joined the first. The two instruments found each other across the blocks between them and began a conversation that carried no words and needed none.
The evidence waited on the table. The compact theory held its shape while the question Maman had planted beneath it grew roots. The curse broadcast at its lowest register.
Bastien closed his eyes. Delphine’s heartbeat measured the dark. The rhythm it offered was not peace—peace belonged to a world without curses and killers and a past that hunted through frequencies only his body could receive. The rhythm offered steadiness, the kind that arrived when a presence did not perform its commitment but simply occupied the space and stayed.
He let her stay. He let the steadiness settle into the space beside the curse and the memory of shadow-wings and the investigation that waited for morning.
TWENTY-THREE
The tracings covered the safehouse table in the order Bastien had pinned them to the corkboard weeks ago—victim by victim, sigil by sigil, the investigation’s accumulated record laid flat across a surface still carrying ring stains from last night’s coffee and the faint impression of Delphine’s notebook.
September morning entered through the kitchen window in bands of gold filtered through the live oak’s canopy. The branches moved without wind, stirred by whatever current the city generated between its rooftops and its river. Humidity had already claimed the air. Bastien’s shirt adhered to the space between his shoulder blades. The curse mark pulsed at its lowest register, broadcasting his position through the safehouse walls.
Delphine stood at the table’s far end, her portfolio open, her pen uncapped. She had arrived thirty minutes before him. The tracings sat in precise chronological order. The genealogical charts hung from clips along the edge of the corkboard. The city map with its red dots occupied the center of the table, surrounded by photocopied correspondence from the Lavigne estate collection.
She had returned to the beginning.
“Start from the first victim,” she said without looking up. “Not the theory. Not the conclusion. The body.”
Bastien moved to the table and pulled the Fontenot tracing forward—Armand Fontenot, first victim, found on Dumaine Street in August. The Marchande-Levesque symbol sat centered over the heart, its radiating lines extending to the shoulders and the base of the ribcage. The carving depth, documented in millimeters at each measurement point, followed a consistent profile: shallow at the extremities, deepening toward the central node.
He had studied this tracing dozens of times—photographed the original, measured the grooves, compared every element against the subsequent victims.
He studied it again.
Delphine placed the Vidal tracing beside it. Second victim, Solange Vidal, Beaumont line. Same symbol, same positioning, same depth profile within the expected escalation. Her pen tapped the central node on the Fontenot sheet.
“The compact theory reads these as ritual repetition,” she said. “Counter-ceremony, each victim serving as a node in the reversed hub-and-spoke formation. The theory accounts for the symbol, the positioning, the sequencing, the blood protocols.”
“It does.”
“And we agreed to follow it while holding Maman’s question.”
“We did.”
She pulled the Arceneaux tracing forward, the third victim, then Deschamps, the fourth, and Renier, the fifth. The five sheets sat in a row across the table, the Marchande-Levesque symbol repeating with the precision of a signature written by the same hand under the same conditions.
Then she placed the Peletier tracing beside the fifth.
The sixth victim carried the two-degree deviation.
Bastien had noticed it weeks ago, had documented it, had carried it in his chest beside the curse and Maman’s warning. The alignment shift—first five victims oriented north-northeast, the sixth and all subsequent victims oriented due north—sat on the table now, visible in the angle of the central symbol’s axis.