Page 90 of The Debutantes
And I cry—letting out everything that I’ve been pushing back, trying to fight, crying until I feel like a hollow husk of myself.
When I’m done, I do the only thing I can think of: I lift my camera, frame the river, and press the shutter.
Already, I know it won’t be right. Water is always hard, and it takes more time than I’ve given it, but it’s comforting to know it’s there, this little piece of her safe in the square of my camera, where I can hold it to my chest.
Beside me, my phone lights up with a text from Renee.
Here
I wipe my eyes, knowing it’s pretty much a lost cause—there’s no way they aren’t red and puffy—but I don’t have time to worry about that. I slide my camera strap over my shoulder and turn back the way I came, finding her clunky gray sedan parked on Decatur.
I climb quickly into the passenger seat, looking over my shoulder before closing the door. Renee is still in her ball gown,and I tamp down the urge to take a picture: my getaway driver, ripping through the French Quarter in tulle and combat boots.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I answer, a little breathless, but I’m not totally sure if it’s from the walk or the fact that I’m alone with Renee again. Her car smells like fake cherries, an air freshener pumping it through the vents, but it’s kind of nice. A miniature sign dangles off a chain of beads from her rearview:BEWARE PICKPOCKETS AND LOOSE WOMEN.
“I’m sorry we ran like that,” I blurt. “We should’ve—”
“April, it’s okay. Y’all gave me a chance to get out.” She shoots me a soft smile, nodding at my camera. “And that was pretty badass, by the way.”
Suddenly, I don’t know what to say.
“They’re good, too?” Renee asks. “Piper and Vivian?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, mouth dry. “I mean, they got out. I think they’re both headed home. But someone sort of sent an email to our entire school exposing our deepest, darkest secrets, so are they good in a general sense? Jury’s still out.”
“Whoa, wait—what? Are you okay?”
“Are you?”
She smiles a little. “You already asked me that.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Neither did you.”
“I…” I trace my finger around my camera lens, the circular motion not doing much to calm me down. “I don’t know. I’m not sure if I can talk about it. But you’re really okay?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” I pause. “There’s something you wanted to tell me?”
For a second, she’s silent.
“The guy in the wolf mask,” she says. “I saw his face.”
I gape. “What? How?”
“After y’all left, I realized it might be my only chance to figure out who he was. The Rougarou. The King. Whatever the hell we’re supposed to call him.” Her nose wrinkles, like the words have a bad aftertaste. “He’s the one who brought her there, who might’ve killed her, so… I had to know.”
I can’t argue, because I’ve felt it, too, that need fueling the drive and danger in her eyes.
“So when the Lieutenant ran off after you—”
“Marty,” I supply. “Detective Rutherford. That’s the guy who’s supposed to be working on Lily’s case. He worked on Margot’s, too.”
Renee’s eyes widen. “Motherfucker.”
