I’m already grinning like a fool by the time she says ‘karate shit’. Then I’m laughing out loud.
“You remember, don’t you?”
I nod. “You were a very little girl. And you put up two fingers like a cross and called us blue-eyed demons. But then…” I pause to make sure I get the memory right. “You pulled two crabapples out of your dress pocket and said—”
“‘Even demons gotta eat.’”
We laugh again. And it’s during this laugh that the entirety of my life hits me hard.
It’s not exactly about who I am or what I’ve done.
It’s about what I gave up to be me.
It’s about what I’ve missed.
“Did you eat them?”
I chuckle. “The crabapples?”
She giggles too. “I hope you didn’t eat them. They were nasty.”
Then we are both laughing hard.
“My gra-mere used to make pies out of them. Worst things ever. She used to make me go around the neighborhood and steal them off people’s trees.” She pauses, her eyes sparkling again as her face goes soft with another memory. “But I would give anything to have one of her nasty crabapple pies right now.”
I don’t say anything because sadness has entered the room. Regret too.
“She died about six months ago. Ripe old age of ninety-seven. And she was still sewing. She left her shop to me when she died. I’m a seamstress too. We mostly make hats, but purses as well.” Perrine nods her head to the beaded clutch on the couch next to her. “Well. Used to make hats and purses. Not anymore. I sold the shop.”
“Oh.” Her sadness makes sense now.
“I thought… there had to be more to life than just sewing and the French Quarter. I’ve never been anywhere. I wanted to go places. See things. But then I realized…” She pauses and shakes her head. “I had no one to do that with. We owned the building where the shop was. I have two million dollars in my bank account, Mr. Boucher. And I have no one to spend it on.”
“Hm. I can relate. Money’s not really the answer, is it?”
“It’s nice to have. I’m not going to deny that. But no. It only solves trivial things. The important stuff? That’s all stuff money can’t buy.”
I am lost in the memory of Indie in her cage for a moment.
That’s what I was doing that night. Trying to buy happiness.
What a fool I was.
“How about you?” Perrine asks. “You got any regrets?”
I laugh out loud. “How much time do you have?”
“All night, I think.”
“Perrine,” I say.
“Adam,” she says back.
“You really are gonna regret knowing me.”
“Well, I’m not there yet. And I really do have all night.”
“You were right,” I say.
“About what?”
“We were—we are—just a couple of blue-eyed demons.”
A long, silent minute goes by. Then Perrine says, “That’s it, then? You’re just gonna cop to it? Just like that? No excuses or explanations?”
“Yeah. Just like that. There are no excuses or explanations for the things we’ve done.”
Her smile grows big again.
“Why are you smiling?”
She points at me. “Because honesty will get you everywhere with me, Mr. Blue-Eyed Demon.”
Could she be a trap?
Yeah. She could.
But even if I confessed to her, and she was some kind of undercover agent or whatever, what could anyone do to me?
Nothing. There would be no consequences.
The entire FBI is corrupt. That agency is never gonna be anything but corrupt. I own every judge in New Orleans. There are still a few honest ones in the rural areas. And I don’t own anyone in Pearl Springs. Maybe if I were in Utah or one of those other wild places out West, I might worry a little bit about the local law enforcement. But we’re here. In a place I control. So what do I have to lose?
Just her.
And if she walks out, then she walks out.
But I’m tired of lying.
I like this woman.
I want to know her.
I might even want to keep her.
And I refuse to start something new with a lie.
So I start with that night on the island. She leans forward when I begin talking. Listening. Eyes wide, like I’m telling a ghost story.
She doesn’t interrupt me. Just lets me talk.
At some point, McKay comes out of the bedroom. We lock eyes. He’s a little bit confused, but takes a seat on the couch next to her. Puts his arm around her, like he’s protecting her from our dirty past.
She leans into him as I keep going, telling her all about Indie, and the Company, and Donovan back at Old Home.
She never gets up. She never interrupts me. She never walks out.
She just listens. Maybe she believes me and maybe she doesn’t. That’s not really up to me. It’s not even the point. And I think she gets this. The only reason someone cops out to a story like this is to ease their own burdens.