The gate around the property is open, the house itself dark. The street is empty. This neighborhood is outside of the touristy part of New Orleans. I walk swiftly toward then through the gate, wondering if it’s ever closed, considering how it’s dug into the soft, mossy grass. I bypass the front entrance, not worried about the motion detector I trigger on the side of the house. It’s not going to alert Mercedes or anyone else. It’s poorly positioned where there aren’t any windows.

Using the flashlight on my phone to locate the lock at the back door, I slide the key in, turn it, and enter the house. I shine the light over the room. The large, old kitchen has updated appliances and a long chopping block counter with a farmhouse sink. The floors are tile and probably original to the house.

It’s a long, relatively narrow kitchen, and I walk the length of it, taking in the single dish in the sink and the teacup still on the counter with its tea bag in it. It’s cold to the touch, but the teabag is still damp, so it’s probably from earlier tonight.

An old wooden table with seating for six is set in the middle of the room, making it seem even narrower. It’s wiped clean. It looks like it’s been used for years. I walk through to the formal dining room, take in the antiques, the lace curtains, and although it’s messier than I like, I see money here. High-end, well-made furniture, beautiful things in a style fitting to the house and to New Orleans.

On the table by the front door, I see the hat and sunglasses from the photos Ezra showed me. I take careful steps up the staircase to minimize the creaking of the wood as I climb. The bedroom doors stand open. I look inside each one, finding most of the beds stripped of bedding. Which makes sense if Madame Dubois lives in her French Quarter apartment. Quietly, I open a closed door and find it’s a bathroom. Like those in the kitchen, the fixtures are high-quality but older, the tiles original, the large claw-footed tub elegant and beautiful. A toothbrush and toothpaste sit on the edge of the single pedestal sink, and the sink is wet from recent use. The towel is askew, and a bath towel is drying on a rack. I pick up the damp bar of soap and see the imprint of the apothecary on it. I recognize it from the items Solana gifted me and remember the elixir she’d given me for my mood.

When I bring the soap to my nose, I smell Mercedes. I take a moment to inhale deeply. I can just picture her relaxing in the deep tub and possibly drinking a glass of wine, all while I turn New Orleans upside down to find her.