“Aargh!” I exclaim as I duck and jerk backward, avoiding a direct hit. But plenty of the pepper spray still reaches my eyes, scorching them like an open flame.

Rima hurries to rejoin her friends. I lean over, rest my hands on my knees, and rapidly blink and squint and sniffle, the searing pain intensifying.

After what seems like several agonizing minutes—but is probably just a few seconds—I manage to get back to my car, where I pour some bottled water over my eyes to try and stop the stinging. I even manage to forget about my throbbing head and busted arms and fractured rib. Eventually, the last few days catch up with me, and I fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s pitch black, and I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it out, manage to tap the right spot on the touchscreen to answer, and place it to my ear.

It’s Marlene.

Who sounds more scared than I’ve ever heard her before.

“Caleb … ” she says, voice shaking. “Oh, Caleb … get here … get here now!”

CHAPTER 37

I’m still too blinded from the pepper spray to safely drive, so I step into the street and frantically wave down the first orange city cab I see.

The driver is a middle-aged woman with thick dreadlocks cascading down her back like a waterfall. It briefly crosses my mind that I can’t remember the last time, if ever, I had a female taxi driver—until my thoughts immediately shift back to Marlene.

Christ, what have I dragged that poor woman into?

Tossing a wad of bills at the driver as we arrive, I don’t even wait for her to completely stop the vehicle before I fling open the rear door and leap out.

Two NOPD cruisers and an NOFD ambulance are idling beside the Killer Chef truck, which is parked on a quiet side street off Esplanade Avenue in Marigny.

And our beloved truck has been brutalized.

The windshield and side windows have all been shattered. The outside metal siding has been battered and dented. The tires have been slashed. Even the shrimp-and-crossbones Killer Chef logo has been sprayed with ugly black graffiti. Not to mention the inside, which has been completely trashed, too.

It’s a stunning, heartbreaking sight.

I feel like I’ve been punched in my stomach.

But the worst is yet to come.

“Marlene?!” I yell out, as I hurry around to the ambulance’s rear.

She’s sitting on the rear bumper, as two cops stand by, one with a clipboard in his hands, scribbling away, probably having just taken her statement. I don’t recognize either of them. There are two EMTs, one finishing bandaging her left forearm, the other stepping back after having used a penlight to inspect her pupils.

My ex-wife appears rattled and more than a little roughed up—but also as strong and sassy as ever.