looked alike. I barely see the similarities anymore, though we have the same build and same auburn-colored hair (mine is dyed.) My happy thoughts of the best person I know are dashed with the reality of the situation.
Becca was kidnapped because of me, and now she’s leverage.
And all because I got involved with the wrong guy. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of bad boys, but this one topped the list. Victor Abraham. Sure, he was suave and smart, and terribly sexy. He also turned out to be a ruthless loan shark— which I could handle. At least I thought I could. I broke up with him, which he apparently didn’t like. He sent a few goons to get me back, but they took Becca by accident instead. I offered myself up to Victor, but he doesn’t trust me anymore. Having me isn’t enough. Now Victor wants me to prove my loyalty to him by stealing the one thing he hasn’t been able to steal himself: his great-grandmother’s purple diamond necklace.
Beads of sweat slip down my damp, sun-kissed skin and gooseflesh appears as another all-too-brief burst of damp air drifts by. It’s going to rain soon. Good. I won’t have an easy time getting away with all this damn sunshine. I take a moment to thank Ed Carls, Channel 2’s weather man. He’s usually wrong, but he managed to get it right today. I look down at my watch as a bead of sweat catches at the tip of my nose and falls, splashing on the dial. Five to noon. I wipe it away and look out at the river and take several deep breaths. I should be going.
I push myself off the railing and give the Mississippi one last look. With the river to my back, I cross the train tracks, and leave the Moonwalk behind. The first cloud breaks above my head and raindrops filter through the clouds. I lift my hand up, catching a few warm raindrops in my palm and then it stops. I wipe my wet hands on the legs of my damp jeans. The action does little to dry them. Back in Michigan, the rain water is always cold— even in the height of summer. I used to hate it when we visited my mother’s mother there in the winter. It was too damn cold. But not here. The tropical climate sees to that. It’s almost always warm here.
Despite the incredible summer heat and looming rain, Jackson Square is packed to the gills. New Orleanians don’t mind a little heat, especially when there’s a festival going on. To the east, toward Chalmette, where food vendors have lined up along the street and are peddling everything from frozen lemonade to roast beef po’ boys. To the west, toward the Garden District, the street is packed with festival-goers, spilling out of taverns and local lunch favorites. People walk lazily in front of cars and trucks which have found themselves in unmoving traffic.
A cluster of people sidle up to me and wait for a break in traffic. I take another deep breath and remind myself why I’m doing this.
I can’t wait any longer or it will be too late.
The slow-moving traffic stalls and the people beside me take off toward Jackson Square for the heart of the festival. I follow behind and keep my head low. The square doesn’t have many cameras. Just the ones at the corners of the Pontalba buildings and just above the entrance at Cafe Du Monde. I have it on good faith that the only one that records is the Cafe Du Monde camera, but I don’t know how far out the lens reaches. I only have one chance. I can’t screw this up and risk putting anyone else I love in danger.
I walk through the open gates of Jackson Square and smile at the sight before me. My mother, with her dark brown hair tucked neatly under a black and gold ball cap, smiles at me from beneath the statue of Andrew Jackson right at the center of the square. Her hands are tightly clutching a brown paper lunch sack in her hands. The incredible worry shows in her light gray eyes and she’s chewing at her lip. I want to tell her that her baby girl will be all right. I want to tell her not to worry. There are so many things I want to tell her but I can’t risk anyone finding out about her. Her eyes