Lara:

Very real.

The text is followed by an X0, and for a second I think she’s trying to send me hugs and kisses, which would be very out of character. Then she explains that it’s a skull and crossbones—like a bottle of poison. Do not touch.

The mention of a skull reminds me of the skeleton in the suit. Maybe I should just tell Lara about what happened. But before I can, she texts that she has to catch a flight, and then she’s gone.

I blow out a breath and tell myself it’s okay. I don’t need her help. Just because I saw the skull-faced stranger once doesn’t mean I’ll see it again. Once is a glitch, an accident. No reason to be worried.

“Yeah,” says Jacob, sounding skeptical. “I’m sure it will all turn out fine.”

At Café du Monde, the air tastes like sugar.

The café sits at the edge of Jackson Square: a giant courtyard full of people—tourists, but also performers. A woman stands on an upturned bucket, painted head to toe in silver. She’s dressed like a dancer, but she doesn’t move until someone drops a coin into her palm. A man plays a saxophone in the shade, and the sound of a trumpet rises from the other side of the square. The two melodies sound like they’re talking.

We grab a table beneath the green-and-white-striped awning. Mom and Dad order coffee, and I order iced tea, which comes in a large, sweating plastic cup. The drink is mercifully cold, but sweet enough to make my teeth hurt.

A dozen fans make lazy circles over our heads, churning the air without cooling it, but despite the heat, Dad is clearly in his element.

He looks out at the bustling square.

“New Orleans is a marvel,” he says. “It was founded by the French, given to the Spanish, used by pirates and smugglers—”

Jacob and I both perk up at that, but Dad presses on.

“Sold to the United States, scarred by slavery, consumed by fire, ravaged by flood, and rebuilt despite it all, and that’s just the shape of it. Did you know the city has forty-two cemeteries, and it’s home to the longest bridge in the US? The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway—you can’t see one side from the other—”

Mom pats his arm. “Save some for the show, darling,” she teases, but he’s on a roll now.

“This city has more history than hauntings,” he says. “For one, it’s the birthplace of jazz.”

“And home to voodoo and vampires,” says Mom.

“And real people, too,” presses Dad, “like Pere Antoine and Jean Lafitte—”

“And the Axeman of New Orleans,” adds Mom brightly.

Jacob shoots me a look. “I really hope axe is a kind of instrument and not—”

“He went around chopping people up,” Mom adds.

Jacob sighs. “Of course he did.”

“Back in 1918, he terrorized the city,” says Dad.

“No one felt safe,” says Mom.