2. Leonor

2

LEONOR

T he old plantation property finally comes into view, and I sigh.

God, I hate it here.

The almost three-mile-long driveway was originally a back road out of town, way before it was ever bought and turned into a home, and the owners left it lined with southern live oaks and weeping willows. Then eventually the remnants of various workhouses as the land was bought and sold over the years.

I slow down as I pull around to the back of the two-story carriage house that sits just beyond the main gate then put my Prius into park once it’s hidden.

The carriage house has been converted into a museum upstairs in what was once the gamekeeper’s quarters, the exhibit complete with artifacts that belonged to the family who built the plantation in 1783. And that alone gives me the creeps because hello, pre-Civil War plantation in NOLA.

This place is ghost central on a normal day, and today does not feel normal .

Probably doesn’t help that I found a rather macabre piece of shit waiting on my windshield after I had a mini panic attack walking through the parking structure. My mindset is not solid despite the extra meds, and coming here doesn’t chill out the ick factor much.

I glance over at the passenger seat, the creepy little patchwork doll wrapped in twine staring up at me with its no eyeballs .

That’s what I found on my windshield. A doll no bigger than my hand, made of mismatched fabric stitched together with thick black thread, and where the eyes should be is nothing but black burn marks.

Awesome .

I shake off the heebie-jeebies, open my door and step out, but I pause before grabbing my bag from the backseat. My eyes wander toward the acres and acres of land, staring out at the dilapidated shacks that used to contain dozens of men and women forced to work here for the Bissonnette family centuries ago.

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as a chill ripples violently down my spine, and I shake my head. I hate those buildings, hate their history and what they represent, but I understand why they need to be here. That history can never be forgotten, and it’s one of the only reasons I’m here to begin with. My skills can help make sure that doesn’t happen.

Shaking off the heavy feelings that always hit me, the overwhelming sadness emanating from the acreage before me, I throw my bag over my shoulder and turn to start my half-mile walk to the main house.

Everything about the Bissonnette mansion oozes grandeur and wealth, from the enormous porch that wraps around the entirety of the main level, to the Romanesque columns that shoot up from the planks of wood as if trying to mimic the ancient trees in front of them. This place was built to impress, to wow and brag, and in a sick way, Mr. Bissonnette did that right up until the very end.

The two upper floors of the main house have a combined eight bedrooms with private balconies and iron railing, each of the massive rooms containing a set of French doors that lead out to secluded sitting areas. Even more so now that the English Ivy that spirals up the columns on the porch have long since started to reach for the iron bars, wrapping those balconies in an extra layer of secrecy. And while it made it easy for the mister to throw two or three of his mistresses from them without anyone seeing, it does nothing to hide the damage that’s been done with years of vacancy and neglect.

There are rows of Woodland Phlox and Louisiana Irises that encompass the entire front and sides of the house, spilling out over the beds into a beautiful sea of purples. Rumored to have been planted in order to hide those same mistresses' shallow graves, and if they were, I’m glad they’re so pretty. Those women deserve that after such ugly deaths at the hands of an even uglier man.

The back porch is much larger than the front, the sole purpose of it to entertain and impress Mr. Bissonnette’s many business partners, complete with stone pathways leading out into the back garden full of pecan and magnolia trees, everything in full bloom and dripping with life.

It’s quite breathtaking actually, with the large marble fountain that includes spitting fish and dancing cherubs, all the different topiaries and stone benches. Too bad I’m too far gone to see anything but an extravagant mausoleum.

Approaching the front steps, I tip my head back and groan when I’m immediately met with a pissed off Justine and her hardened stare.

“You can’t keep doing this. Not anymore. I may have been able to get this gig for you, but I sure as hell can’t keep it. It’s no skin off my hide if you screw this up.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest as she scowls at me, no doubt preparing for the lecture I’m sure she’s been rehearsing since I hung up on her a little while ago.

But I’m not really feeling it.

Not after being forced to leave my tomb to come out here, and not after finding my new friend waiting on my car.

“I know.” I hold up my hand to stop her as Justine opens her mouth. “I know. You stuck your neck out for me, and I need to be better. I’m sorry, Justine.” I give her a forced smile as I attempt to smooth this over, my stomach twisting into knots at my bullshit line we both see right through. But this has all just become part of the norm these days.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m secretly a psychopath.

“I just worry so much about you,” Justine says with a sigh as her tone softens, the tough guy act disappearing as quickly as it came. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a small squeeze as soon as I’m within range. “I want my Leo back. I want you to find who you are again.”

Justine lets go of me but doesn’t stop flapping her gums. “The new benefactor isn’t going to care about your struggles; he won't care about your past, or our relationship. He is only going to care about the restoration of this property and if anything, or anyone prevents that from happening.” Then she grabs the sides of my face and looks me dead in the eyes. “Just try. Please . I’m asking you to try .”

I nod absently and hope my expression isn’t as checked out as I feel.

I know Justine is right, that this is good for me. And I am well aware that it’s ultimately her neck on the chopping block if I fuck this up.

I also know Justine worries herself sick over me and all of my bullshit because she loves me more than anyone else ever has. But what Justine doesn’t know is the fact that I long ago resigned myself to this pitiful excuse of an existence, and I have little to no intention of making an effort to change it.

I’m doing this for her so when it’s all said and done, Justine can look back without any regrets, and she can say she tried. And I guess somewhere in my fractured mind and my broken heart, I’m doing it so she knows I still love her too.

Fucking sappy shit.

“Justine, I really am sorry.” Sort of. Sorry she still feels obligated to put up with my sorry ass. “I will be better.” But probably not.

She shakes her head with a sigh then flashes a warm smile before spinning on her heel and heading for the front doors. “Let’s get on with it then. Hustle now, we’ve already wasted most of the morning.”

I look down at my watch with a smirk.

9:06 a.m.

We clearly have different definitions of time wasted, but I silently follow her into the house anyway.

And as soon as we breach the doorway past some dude I don’t recognize standing just inside it like a statue, Justine starts pointing to different places on the walls, at the floor, down hallways and along banisters, filling me in on everything I missed already today, but her words are inaudible against my own thoughts.

Like what this job, what this place means to my friend, to my pseudo-mother of sorts.

Justine has run around the grounds of the Bissonnette Plantation since she was a child. Her father was the groundskeeper here when the last of the Bissonnette family donated it to the city of New Orleans as a historical property back in the seventies. Restoration plans were drawn up at the time with a sole benefactor who wanted to see the estate restored to its former glory backing the entire project, the long-term goal being a teaching tool for future generations to come.

Unfortunately, they only got as far as the carriage house before the benefactor suddenly died in a series of weird and unexpected events, and funding was cut off.

The city kept Justine’s family on to look after things, and that’s exactly what her father did right up until he passed away four years ago. Which is when Justine and Pierre stepped in, her mother having passed about ten years before we even met, meaning it would fall to her eventually. But eventually came sooner than Justine thought, and it was her father’s dying wish that she continues to care for the estate the way he always had.

Recently though, this new, mysterious benefactor enlisted Justine to oversee all the renovations as they picked up where the dude from back in the day left off—including the hiring of any and all trades necessary to complete the project. Which is exactly how I wound up with the gig to restore the original paintings of the Bissonnette Plantation a few months ago.

I needed it for so many reasons that really mean nothing to me, but Justine needed me to have it. She needed me to try one more time, to be better on some level, if for no one else but her.

And when Justine read the contract to me, citing all of the details on how the mystery philanthropist wanted to renew the property right down to filling the fields once used for indigo and sugar cane crops with sunflowers to replace the sadness and death with beauty and new life , well, her face just beamed, and I couldn’t say no.

Even if my bullshit meter was screaming over that corny as hell line.

“I took the liberty of having Pierre whip you up a proper breakfast since I know you didn’t have time for that before you got here,” Justine practically sings as she floats down the hall, gliding into the kitchen as her linen sundress whirls around her ankles.

Setting my bag on the floor, I hop up on one of the barstools next to the makeshift island in the center of the room, the kitchen itself larger than the loft portion of my apartment—which is pretty freaking big—and currently being used as the restoration HQ.

The island isn’t an original part of the house, but it’s become a necessity while restorations are taking place, serving as a table for the crew to sit and hash out blueprints or whatever. And to eat the massive meals Pierre provides, which is another one of their personal touches that boosts morale.

“What’s with Lurch?”

She cracks a smile and looks toward the hall with a shrug. “Extra security. I guess some teenagers broke in a few nights ago and got all the way to the third floor before the police showed up.”

I nod and watch as Justine reheats the breakfast, chattering on the whole time, and cleaning as she goes. She’s so pretty with her deep bronze skin shimmering in the sunlight, and her dark brown hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Justine is so beautiful, so full of life, and looks like a damn model in her twenties instead of the almost fifty-five-year-old woman she is. And her carefree, whimsical attitude only adds to her appeal.

No wonder why Pierre is so lovesick every time he sees her.

In an effort to humor the only woman who ever attempted to mother me, I try to eat the meal on the countertop, but my stomach turns and flips with each small bite, and I have to swallow ridiculously hard to keep anything down. The smell alone has me struggling with the overwhelming need to evacuate what little was already in my system, and putting more in is not a great idea.

Justine starts singing to herself as she floats around the kitchen, and the corners of my mouth pull up slightly when she laughs about something Pierre did earlier, this incredible woman trying desperately to fill the uncomfortable void that now stretches between us. I watch her twirl, and suddenly my mind is wandering down memory lane, back to when I first met Justine, that day all those years ago that would restitch my path and weave the thread dangerously close to too many others.

I was barely eighteen when Justine found me, alone and trying desperately to make ends meet. I graduated from high school early but couldn’t afford to pursue my passions in a formal setting, so I did what I could on the streets of the Main Quarter. Every single morning, I set up a spot on the side of the street with my oil paintings and guitar, doing whatever I could to make a few bucks or earn a hot meal.

Then one day, Justine showed up in a whirlwind of colors and sparkles looking every bit a magical, powerful fairy queen, and offering an outrageous amount of money for one of my mediocre paintings of the Mardi Gras festivities.

I was never proud of that type of thing, we both knew my paintings were garbage, but the tourists ate it up, and it was one of the only ways to make some cash.

Justine had argued with me, shouted at me for wasting what was clearly my true talent and passion on the streets of a beautiful but dangerous city . Then she threw the money in my guitar case and stormed off, leaving the painting behind in an irrational fit of rage.

She started coming by every day after that, every day for almost two years, making sure I was eating or at least had money to do so. Justine eventually talked me into moving down to her cafe that specialized in eclectic knickknacks and spiritual antiquities. Then she hired me to work the register, pending I sell real art from the shop as well.

It was because of Justine that I was able to get off the streets and on my feet, and shortly after, she introduced me to the men who would become my band, my family, my entire heart and soul. And indirectly the monster who would take every ounce of my soul and destroy it.

My heart still aches when I think of those days.

“Leonor? Hello? Are you finished, child?” I look up to find Justine staring at me, that look of concern creeping back into her features.

“Sorry, I’m not that hungry. I ate before I left.”

I stand and grab my bag then take off up the servant’s stairs behind her before she has the chance to call me on my shit. Justine would never consider what I had at home a meal , and I’m tired of arguing with her about everything under the sun.

Pushing the loose pieces of hair that escaped my bun behind my ears, I walk into bedroom number seven—each of them are numbered, and the house is split into grids in order to help the crew—and blow out a breath because how is this my life.

Unrolling my brushes and tools, I quickly set up my workstation in a very meticulous and deliberate way. It’s one of the few things I still have minimal control over while I spiral downward.

I take my position on the stool, put in my ear buds and let the music take me far away from this place, wondering what it would be like to do more than just survive.

Or finally stop trying at all.

I lift my head slowly from the portrait of Mrs. Beatrice Bissonnette I’m working on as my heart starts slamming into my rib cage.

I’m no longer alone.

I can feel someone’s presence in the doorway.

My stomach is in my throat, my throat that is so tight I can barely breathe.

I can’t move, can’t speak.

I can’t even turn around.

My whole body feels like it’s on fire, but I start shaking uncontrollably, and my hands are like ice while simultaneously sweating. My thoughts start racing and I remember my Beretta in my bag but before I can act, my breaths turn into short little pants that aren’t getting enough air, and the brush in my fingers slips free, my grip lost completely while the world starts to spin on its axis.

Then it disappears.