She’d chosen her more refined side today, Erin decided. Esplanade Ridge teemed with early weekend tourists, eager to view the contents of the New Orleans Museum of Art or tour the half-remembered glory of Faubourg Tremé. The area, known as Tremé to its inhabitants, had been the site of great civil rights victories. Their triumph faded as the struggle moved east to Selma and Atlanta, but New Orleans remembered her sacrifice.

It was difficult, Erin thought, to reconcile the pieces of New Orleans into a whole. It was a difficulty she recognized in herself. Perhaps that’s what had drawn her to the city, when she and Sebastian were creating her new life.

New Orleans was more than a survivor. The city reveled in its contrasting sides, in its rebellious youth and horrible missteps. Maybe, Erin hoped, she could find redemption here, too.

She’d begin by retracing the lives of victims Burleigh Singleton and Phoebe Bailey.

Mr. Singleton had been employed at the First Bank of New Orleans, which had a branch on nearly every street corner. Erin kept an account at one near the school. Standing in the marble atrium, she looked around to get her bearings.

“Welcome to First Bank. May we help you?”

Erin turned. The chirpy voice matched the speaker. Sunshine yellow had been whipped into a froth and poured into a snug suit that stopped midthigh. Pale golden skin, bright blond hair, and a toothy smile completed the picture. Her name tag introduced her as Amber.

“Hello … Amber.” Erin glanced around the bank. “I’m looking for an old friend of mine. Burleigh Singleton?”

Amber’s good cheer evaporated. Suddenly somber, she said, “Mr. Singleton is no longer with us.”

“He’s not? Do you know where I can find him?”

“Excuse me, what was your name?”

“Erin Abbott.”

“Well, can you hold on a sec? Just a sec?” When Erin nodded, Amber hurried away toward the offices in the rear of the bank.

Hopefully, Erin thought, Amber would introduce her to a coworker or preferably his secretary. She wanted to get a picture of Mr. Singleton’s life and check for connections to Julian Harris. A night on the internet had revealed little about Singleton. She had found a brief bio and a mention of his recent promotion to the branch’s chief loan officer position. He was beloved by his alma mater, where he gave annually and often recruited graduates to work with him. The alumni association had named an award after him, which was the angle she planned to use. The bank interview was her best shot, because, according to his obituary, he left a wife and two children in a tony home in Lakeview. She thought about talking to Mrs. Singleton, but she doubted she’d get past the front door. There would be no repeats of the Harris B & E. On the plus side, that meant no Gabriel to ask questions he knew she wouldn’t answer.