“I meant, um … anytime I see a doctor, they—not that I see them often, just—”

“No explanation necessary,” I reassure her.

I step closer and put my hand on her shoulder.

“Besides,” I continue, “where there’s smoke … there’s probably something burning on a stainless-steel, six-burner professional stove.”

She rolls her eyes at my cheesy line. Then she smiles.

“Thanks for tonight, Caleb. I had a wonderful time.”

“‘Had?’ Are you saying the evening’s over?”

She gives me a look. “Are you saying it’s not?”

To be honest, I was planning to say goodnight to her at this point. To end our night on a high note. After my confrontation with David, I’m dying to dive back into my investigation. To find out what the hell he’s hiding and why.

But standing so close to her, soaking in her beauty under the hazy orange glow of the streetlamps, I can’t help myself. My flesh is very weak.

“I was thinking of taking a stroll through the French Quarter to walk off some of that meal,” I say. “I’d love it if you joined me.”

She smiles. “Consider yourself joined.”

We start heading east down St. Charles Avenue, along one of the final stretches of tonight’s parade. The procession ended hours ago, but the narrow street is still thick with spectators. Nearly every one of them has beads around their necks and drinks in their hands.

As we make our way, she and I are jostled by a group of drunk college kids. We have to step around them, and for a few, brief seconds we’re separated.

When we reconnect, I exclaim: “Phew, there you are! Did you miss me?”

She laughs. “Desperately, Caleb. And so it doesn’t happen again … ”

She slips her small, soft hand into mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.

It’s a simple gesture that catches me by surprise—and fills me with delight.

Hand in hand, we turn right onto Canal Street and head into the French Quarter.

I notice lots of metal police barricades set up along the sidewalks. Crowd control. I see some officers, too. A few Louisiana State Troopers on foot patrol. A pair of NOPD mounted cops keeping watch. I’m sure there are undercover cops here as well, and having seen that National Guard convoy earlier, I’m sure they are quartered somewhere close, as a QRF—Quick Reaction Force—to respond instantly in case something breaks out.

Having them all here is better than nothing. But Christ, in the case of an actual emergency …

“Why the long face, mister?” she asks. “Everything okay?”

I brush aside my doomsday-scenario fears and force a smile.

“Right here, right now … everything is just perfect.”