I lifted my eyebrows. Had he seen the board, too? Had Containment been in Liam’s apartment? “His sister’s killer was a wraith. His job is hunting them.” I shrugged. “That seems pretty logical to me.”
“Does it? Or does it sound like a man obsessed? A man not quite stable?”
I wasn’t sure Containment was the best judge of anyone’s stability these days. “You’d have to take that up with him. Like I said, he’s training me, not psychoanalyzing me, or vice versa.”
Broussard nodded deeply, as though he was mulling over important, weighty things. “I could do that. I could talk to him. Wouldn’t be that hard to do.” He looked at me, considering. “He did mention that he investigated your father? Before he was shot, I mean?”
All the sound in the world dropped away. I’d never stood in silence so immense as the silence that fell around me in the wake of that question.
I’d gone into Devil’s Isle with Liam Quinn. I’d met his grandmother. He’d been in my store, met my friends, seen my magic. I’d told him things about me, about my family.
Maybe Broussard was lying. Maybe this was a setup, a trick, to get me to turn on Liam. But maybe it wasn’t. And he’d been hiding from me that he believed my father could have been a traitor.
Broussard watched my reaction, could probably see my skin buzzing with sudden and unexpected fury. “I see he didn’t tell you. That’s curious, don’t you think?”
He managed to look concerned, like he actually cared about my reaction, about my possible hurt. But I didn’t want his pity. And I certainly didn’t want his truth. I had my own to deal with.
I slid the owl closer, picked up a set of tweezers, was proud that my fingers weren’t shaking, because it was taking monumental control. “Get out of my store. And don’t come back unless you have a warrant.”
Broussard held up his hands. “I just thought you should know. In these times, we all have to figure out who to trust. In the meantime, be careful. It’s dangerous out there.”
? ? ?
I needed space. I needed air. The store felt suddenly stifling, the walls too close, my emotions too high.
I had to get out.
I’d go to the garden, my plot on the top of the former Florissant Hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone there, and it was up and away from Royal Street. I grabbed an apron and a canvas-lined garden basket from a hook in the kitchenette, flipped the CLOSED sign on the door, and locked up again.
I walked toward the river, passing the alley where my life had changed so suddenly only a couple of days ago. I passed the front of the abandoned hotel, the restaurant that had taken up a corner of the space completely empty, just like the rest of the hotel. Everything potentially useful had been removed long ago—from the chairs in the lobby to the snacks in the minibars. It had been scary and depressing, but also a little impressive, how carefully people could strip a hotel down to its bones.
I slipped around the building to the fire escape, pulled down to give those of us with plots access to the roof, and climbed the steps. The edge of the building was marked by potted trees and plants that received plenty of water and light on the open-air terrace. A cabana at the far end had once held a poolside bar. It was now the storage room for extra pots, tools, and consecrated earth. There was a compost bin on the far end of the patio.
We’d shored up the rafters beneath the pool, filled it with dirt, and turned it into a garden for small trees and plants with longer root systems. The rest of the patio held raised rectangular planters where we could grow plants of our choice.
I grew vegetables for me, Gunnar, Tadji, and a few other friends who lived in the Quarter, mostly older folks who’d survived the war and didn’t have any plans to leave, but also didn’t have many resources. I sold any extras in the store.
October was leaf and root harvest time in our little Louisiana garden—kale, collards, spinach, carrots, beets. I put the basket on the ground and tied on the apron. I pulled the few weeds that had snuck into my box, scooped a few ladles of collected rainwater over plants that looked dry, and picked off dead leaves.
When my little plot was tidy, I got to the good part. I snipped spinach and collard leaves, tossed them into my basket. Three carrots, including a white variety that looked like a really creepy finger, and four small beets. Personally, I thought beets were disgusting and tasted like dirt. But they had plenty of fans in the Quarter.
I shook the excess dirt off the beets, put them carefully in the basket so I didn’t stain the canvas. Beets stained easily, but made a pretty good fabric dye.
As I thought of the perfectly fucking fantastic ways to use these perfectly fucking fantastic beets, I used a dirty glove to wipe tears from my face, probably smearing dirt across it in the process.