“About the lifestyle,” the woman had said, and anger curled in Greta’s gut, pantherlike and sleek.

What Greta’d wanted to say was, “Lifestyle? Bitch, you live in rural Maine, are, like, two years older than me, and seem to think there’s one lifestyle that all lesbians share? Miss me with any ‘answers,’ thanks.”

What she’d actually said was, “Oh yeah, sure. Thanks.” She’d spent the ferry ride back to Owl Island imagining the mortifying texts her date was sending to friends about the clueless, pathetic woman she’d just had drinks with. Then she’d spent the evening at home wondering why she cared. Why she always cared so damn much what people thought of her.

She’d deleted the app after that.

Now here she was, half a world away, and she still cared, damn it.

Carys came to a halt and waited for the group to catch up. She pointed at a second-story balcony and began to spin her first tale.

Carys was a natural storyteller, and the tour group was rapt. Greta was listening, but she was also luxuriating in the atmosphere. Even though she knew much of the French Quarter was a tourist trap, she was a tourist, and while drinking until she puked wasn’t a particular hobby of hers, there was something about the place that was captivating. People moved freely from one bar to another, drinking and dancing in the streets, music from street performers bleeding into one another as they walked. There was a freedom here—a different sense of time. And Greta wanted to let it wash her away.

As they approached the next stop, another tour group stood on the corner. “Ghost tour traffic jam,” Carys said jauntily. “Let’s go up a block, and we’ll come back when they’re done.”

Greta made her way toward the front of the group in an attempt to walk close to Carys, but the father of the Dallas Cowboys–clad father/son duo reached her first and began asking dad questions. What was the population of New Orleans? What was the population density in different neighborhoods?

“I don’t know,” Carys said easily.

“But, but,” the man spluttered, “you’re a tour guide.”

“Well, if you’d like to know the population density of vampires, that I can tell you,” Carys said archly and winked.

“Okay,” the man said.

Carys blinked like a silent film star, but the man still stood expectantly.

“That was a joke,” she said lightly. “Because vampires aren’t real.”

The man frowned. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tell us that on a ghost and vampire tour,” he said.

“It sounds like you might enjoy a historical walking tour,” Carys said, sounding totally unbothered. “I’ll give you a brochure when we get back to Conti.”

Then she took a step away from him and held up her hand, stopping the tour.