“You remember the name?”

“No,” she said. “I might know it if I saw it, though.”

“Go on.”

“Anyway, there was a woman in the shop, she worked there. She asked if I was there for a reading. I said I hadn’t planned on it, but I had time to kill. The girl said the witch who did the readings—”

“She called her ‘a witch’? Not a psychic?”

“Definitely called her a witch, like it was her job. ‘Our witch is in today, and she does great readings if you want one.’ Obviously, trying to sell me something, but I said okay. Why not, right? Thought it would keep me from checking my phone every ten seconds to see if I had the house or not. I gave the girl at the counter my card. She said she’d call me when it was my turn. I left to walk around some more. I got the call. I went back, had my reading. The psychic, the witch, I mean, she had my card on her little table. I asked her if I’d get the house. She said I would. And I did.”

Of course, there was more to it than that. Nora had received a half-hour tarot card reading. The topics had ranged from her writing career—“continued success”—to her love life—“about to get very complicated.” Both turned out to be true, though Nora knew the statements were purposefully vague enough they could apply to nearly any situation.

When she told the witch about moving to New Orleans, that was when things got weird. The woman asked her, “Are you sure you want to do that? They call this town ‘the Big Easy,’ but it’s not going to be easy for you.”

Nora remembered that warning since it was the one part of the reading that had proved false. Apart from the heat, she and The Big Easy had greeted each other like old friends. She loved the history, the people, the beignets, the music, the laissez-faire attitude. Nothing not to love.

Cyrus held up his phone to show her red dots on Google maps. “Which shop was it?”

She read the names, the locations.

Voodoo Alley.

Gris-Gris’s.

The Black Cat Corner Shop.

House of Voodoo.

“None of those ring a bell, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t one of them.”

Nora returned Cyrus’s phone to him. That day had been almost three years ago. The shop could be closed down now.

“And you’re sure the witch had your card?” Cyrus asked.

“I am one-hundred percent certain she had my card. I can still see her holding it.” Nora put her palms flat together in a prayer position to mime how the witch had held her red business card.

“And she didn’t give it back?” Cyrus asked.

“No. I don’t remember her giving it back. I tipped her twenty dollars. I can see the twenty on top of the card.” Nora pictured it now, the little room, not much bigger than a closet, the small round table with the paisley tablecloth, the tarot cards spread out like a fan before them. And the witch…yes, Nora remembered the witch. She’d been very beautiful. Strange serious eyes, like she really believed in what she was doing, like it was real to her even if she knew the dumb tourist across from her at the table didn’t believe a word of it.