I swiped back and forth through the recent photos, trying to decide which one was best. And that’s when I noticed a table of men in the background of the photo, one of them staring at us intensely.

I sat the phone down on the table and glanced over towards the table. He was still there, and still watching us. He saw me looking towards him and his lips parted baring locked teeth in a wolfish grin. It was the kind of smile that seemed less friendly, and more predatory—the kind of smile every woman knows and has felt before at some time in their lives…

Why was he watching us? He was giving me the creeps; could he be related to the violent, threatening messages I’d been receiving?

My stomach twisted in knots as I pushed my dish back and excused myself for the bathroom. Both my appetite and euphoria from earlier all but forgotten.

Chapter Twenty

Rosalee

The bride-to-be

Bourbon Street was already buzzing with music and happy voices as we followed the cracked sidewalks, smiling and nodding at the friendly passers-by. We could hear it before we saw it, a celebration that never ended, or so it seemed; dancers stomped their feet and clapped their hands in the street and buskers played on the corners. Music flowed from hidden courtyards and side streets: jazzy blues tones pouring through the open door of one bar, soulful gospel sung in unison from a nightclub balcony of another. It was a diverse and colorful crowd dressed in bright clothing, some wearing costumes or face paint. Two women roamed the streets on massive stilts, their nipples covered with only thin pasties.

“It’s hard to know if this is heaven or hell,” I said, looking at Tinsley with a forced smile.

“A little bit of both, perhaps,” she said, nudging me gently with her elbow as we strolled along Bourbon Street, jostling with the crowds.

The streets had a unique smell to them which I couldn’t place—something lemony, but old and woody too and of spilled liquor and fried foods.

“Can you imagine how crowded it must be during Mardi Gras?” Georgia asked, looking around at the hordes of people. There was something in her demeanor I hadn’t noticed before—a nervousness I would never have expected from someone who spent so much of their time in front of others doing yoga or showing off her daily life online.

The crowds seemed friendly, party-goers throwing brightly colored beads from the wrought-iron balconies, and men handing out roses, blood red and perfect.

“Yeah, this is nothing compared to Mardi Gras. You’re packed in like a sardine then,” Tinsley said.

“You’ve been before? I didn’t realize you’d been to New Orleans,” I said, looking at my cousin. There were so many things I didn’t know about her life now; we’d grown so far apart over the last few years.