"That's it?"

She nodded. "If somebody figures out what he is, all they have to do is tell somebody else what they saw. Then he can go back to being human, and they become the rougarou instead. But if they keep it a secret, then they're safe, and he stays cursed."

"How long do they have to keep it a secret?"

She shrugged. "Maybe a year. Maybe forever. Now it's your turn to tell a story."

Eugene dug his fingers into the soil and wracked his brain for ghosts.

On the other side of the garden, Father Latimer smiled at them from the church door. He was a handsome man, his hair thick and gray as a pelt, his long black robes immaculate even where they dusted the ground. The stranger, Mary Beth’s silent, nameless friend, watched them from the bench, all but invisible to the other adults who walked through the courtyard.

III.

Early the next morning before Eugene left for work, he paused outside Benoit's door. Benoit had the room across the hall from him; they'd been neighbors for nearly seven years. Eugene hadn't seen or heard him in three days. That wasn't unusual in itself: Benoit had business in New Orleans and was occasionally gone for entire weeks, but this time felt different. Like if Eugene opened the door, there would be an empty space where Benoit's life had been.

Eugene travelled to New Orleans sometimes, when he needed to be anonymous. He only went when the loneliness had crawled up to reach around his throat, so intense he could scarcely breathe. There was always company to be found in the city, and he could slip into the shadows there, where no one knew his name or occupation, and no one cared to ask. It didn’t kill the loneliness, but it drove it back, for a time. Benoit likely went elsewhere for similar reasons. They sometimes found company in each other, two shipwrecked souls drifting side by side, but never for very long. Benoit wasn't looking to build a life with anyone, and for his own part, Eugene wasn't sure he knew how to. But they had traded spare keys all the same, purportedly so Eugene could water Benoit's plants when he was away.

Benoit hadn't mentioned needing any favors recently.

Pressing his palm flat to the door, Eugene waited the span of a heartbeat before twisting the key in the lock and slipping inside. The apartment was still, like no one had been there for days. But there were dishes left on the kitchen table: a plate of toast and a cup of coffee sat like tiny monuments to some lost civilization. The plants that lined the windowsill were brown and withered, like they had been neglected for months. A cockroach scuttled in between their pots before disappearing out of sight.

“Benoit?” Eugene called, not expecting a reply.

As he headed out, he paused for one final glance around. There was a stain on the ceiling, disguised by the shadows so he hadn’t noticed it at first. It leaked black and sinister-looking down the hallway toward the kitchen, originating in the bedroom.