“You’re making my point,” Atkinson said. “Think of the condition Leary was in. She ate three meals a week. She weighed maybe a hundred pounds when she died. Maybe. She lived on cheap street drugs and air and whatever electric crazy ran through her brain. And we believe she stalked these backwoods militia guys through the streets of New Orleans, picking them off one at a time with a razor blade? Because some homeless punk rock girl told us so?”
She held up the picture. “A punk rock girl with one terrifying fucking history. Her first contact with the police was in New Mexico, where we think she was born. There are a lot of gaps in her history. She was twelve. She and a boy, one with a rep at school as a bully, were ‘playing’ on the roof of an abandoned warehouse. The boy fell through a hole in the roof. He died.”
“Accidents happen,” Maureen said. “Sounds more like bad parenting to me.”
“I read the report,” Atkinson said. “Lots of kids played on that roof. None of them remembered that hole being there before that kid fell through it. Two weeks later, Sparrow disappeared from her foster home. She doesn’t pop up anywhere until that day in California.”
“Leary knew the Watchmen,” Maureen said. “She was with them in LaPlace for we don’t know how long. And maybe these Watchmen assholes aren’t half the badasses they think they are. Maybe that’s why they shoot when no one else is looking. They’re fucking cowards.”
“You put it like that,” Atkinson said, “and it sounds like you’re rooting for Sparrow.”
“I was,” Maureen said. “Until five minutes ago.” God, why did she feel so sad? Like someone she knew had died. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We can’t fucking find her. Six weeks we looked for them both. Though I’m guessing we weren’t looking real hard.”
“We are now,” Atkinson said. “Believe that.”
Maureen reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone. She should’ve saved those messages, the voice mails she’d gotten from Leary, well, no, from Sparrow where she sang Maureen those creepy songs. “You know, I thought, maybe for a little while, I could sleep through the night. Walk the streets without looking over my shoulder. Be a regular cop.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Atkinson said. “She seems to have a type, for killing, I mean, and you’re not it. In fact, she seems to like you.”
“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of,” Maureen said.
“When you saw her,” Atkinson said, “what did she say to you? Anything useful? Think about it again. Look at her differently now.”
“Oh, Lord,” Maureen said. “She told me she couldn’t wait for Mardi Gras. That she was super excited to experience her first one.”
“So you think she’s planning on staying here?” Atkinson asked. “Or maybe she was bullshitting you, blowing smoke. And that was before she killed Leary. That murder may have changed her plans. She may already be long gone. She does know how to disappear.”
Maureen opened the photo again, studying the warrior-painted face, the wild ink-black eyes that stared back at her, into her, across the years. “I think she’s in New Orleans to stay. I think she’s home.”
That makes two of us, Maureen thought. It’s you and me, Sparrow.
She folded the photo, tucked it into her leather jacket.
May the best woman win.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks first and foremost to the McDonald, Murphy, Lambeth, and Loehfelm clans for their unwavering support of every kind.
Thanks to Jarrett, Kelcy, and the rest of the Executive Tuesday Krewe, past and present. Real recognize real. And thanks to the owners and staff of Joey K’s for putting up with us.
There’s one name on the cover but it takes a big team to make a book. I’m lucky enough to be part of a great one:
Tremendous gratitude to my amazing agent, Barney Karpfinger, and to Cathy and Marc at the Karpfinger Agency. No way this operation stays afloat without them.
Huge thanks also to Sarah Crichton, editor and publisher extraordinaire, for her thoughtfulness, thoroughness, and enthusiasm, and to John, Abby, Marsha, Lottchen, Rachel, Spenser, Elizabeth, and the whole amazing team at FSG and Picador. Special tip of the cap to Alex Merto for conjuring another mind-bending cover. And to Jill and Ian for keeping me pointed in the right direction on tour. I know I forgot some people, just because I always do. Forgive me. Y’all are the best. Thanks for giving me a happy writing home.
Each writing project has an extensive playlist. As you might expect, the New Orleans books (and their author) rely heavily on New Orleans music. That music includes but is not limited to: Dr. John, Anders Osborne, Kelcy Mae, Juvenile, the Revivalists, the Soul Rebels Brass Band, the Hot 8 Brass Band, Luke Winslow King, Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue, Galactic, the Rebirth Brass Band. Inspiration also from the Dead Weather, Band of Skulls, Juliana Hatfield, Metric, Matt Mays, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, the Tragically Hip, Jason Isbell, Gillian Welch.
As often happens, I took some liberties with time and place in New Orleans for storytelling purposes. I beg my fellow New Orleanians’ indulgence and forgiveness.