Phantom: A Dark Retelling (Tattered Curtain Series)
Phantom: Act 2 – Scene 13

Scarlett

By the time I’ve stomped back into Sol’s bedroom, he’s nowhere to be found, but a rose gold satin gown lies across his king-size bed. Something tells me the dress will fit like a glove.

Up until a few minutes ago, I was certain I was going to be locked up in this medievalesque underground lair for the rest of my days, so the fact that he’s wanting to go to a masquerade of all things silences my questions. For now.

While I’m getting ready in the en suite bathroom, I apply mascara, a little blush on my cheeks, and lip gloss. My curls can’t be tamed, so I leave them down to do their thing. When I’m finished, I slip into the trumpet gown and nude strappy heels.

The off-the-shoulder neckline kisses the top of my breasts. My hands move with a mind of their own as they smooth along the curves I suddenly have. The shimmery fabric flares out where a thigh-high slit rests just below my hip. It’s gorgeous, decadent, and easily the most expensive piece of clothing I’ve ever worn.

But not only is the zipper impossible for me to reach by myself, the off-the-shoulder straps are supposed to crisscross down my spine to tie into a bow at the small of my back. I take a steadying breath, knowing I’m about to have to let Sol touch me again so he can do the job.

Hopefully I can control myself this time, Jesus.

I leave the bathroom while holding the back of my dress together awkwardly and replace Sol sitting on the bed, scratching the right side of his face while he looks at his phone. He’s already changed into a charcoal-gray suit and white button-down with a rose gold satin tie that matches my dress.

“Ah, all done? Let’s go—” He lifts his head up from his phone and does a double take.

His lips part in shock. Mine do the same, although, at the moment, I might be more stunned than he is. The mask he wears tonight doesn’t even look fake. It fits him like a second skin, as if he’s rolled it onto his face and adhered to it. I’ve seen plenty of talented makeup artists in the industry, but if I wasn’t as close to him as I am right now, I wouldn’t know it was a mask at all.

I bite my lip and his gaze darts to my mouth. The hunger in that vivid midnight eye makes my core clench and my barely there thong is already getting soaked.

He swallows, seemingly gaining the composure that is still evading me. “You’re breathtaking, Scarlett.”

Heat blooms to my cheeks and my gaze falls to the ground. He’s there in an instant, lifting my chin to meet his sparkling midnight eye. The right one is extremely dark, though almost identical. But I can tell the difference between the man and the fake.

“Don’t hide from me, little muse,” he murmurs, searching my eyes. “Own your beauty.”

If the eyes are a window to a man’s soul, then my demon of music has starlight in his dark depths. Everyone else says his eyes are black as coal, so does that mean I’m the only one who can see the man inside the phantom?

Settle down, girl. You barely know him, and from what you do know, he’s your stalker.

And my savior.

I can’t tell anymore who’s winning these arguments, my head or my heart. But I’m relieved to know that I haven’t been steadily losing my mind over the past several months.

What I thought were auditory hallucinations was actually Sol’s very real piano playing. The music sheets and roses didn’t just appear out of thin air, he’d left them after moving silently through my mirror in my room. Sol was behind it all, which means I haven’t relapsed into a manic episode. I’m still healthy, in remission, and not on the verge of psychosis again.

“I um… I can’t tie this by myself.”

He releases my chin as I turn around for his help. Through the open bathroom door, I can see our reflection in the mirror and easily read the reverence in his gaze as his fingers skate down my bare back.

“Mmm… yes. When I told the boutique owner to send their finest, this was exactly what I envisioned. Heads will roll if they stare at what’s mine for too long, but goddamn am I a lucky bastard for getting to look at you all night.”

My heart flutters at his words while my logic tells me I should correct him. That I’m not his.

But I want to be.

His fingertips send electric shivers throughout my body while he zips me up. When he finishes, he takes his time to tie the dress’s ribbon straps at the small of my back. Once I’m securely in my dress, he pulls my thick black curls over my shoulder and looks at me in the mirror as he leaves the lightest of kisses on my nape.

I’m this close to being totally okay with remaining his captive and living in this modern medieval lair forever. But he pulls away, leaving me bereft of his touch, and mad that I almost gave in so quickly again. Sol Bordeaux is quickly teaching me that even when I’m sane, I’m one complex bitch.

I swallow and turn to face him, studiously ignoring the desire on his face, even though it’s tempting me to throw all caution to the wind.

“Exquisite, ma chère.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. Bordeaux.”

He grimaces. “Sol, please, little muse.”

“So that’s a no to calling you my demon of music? And what about the Phantom of the French Quarter?” I tease. “How did you get that nickname by the way?”

His lips quirk up. “You’ll see me in action tonight. Come on, we should go before it closes.”

“Before what closes?”

“Miss Mabel’s shop.”

I frown because that answer means absolutely nothing to me, but I don’t ask him to elaborate, instead, resolving to just go along for the ride for once.

He walks down the hallway and I follow close behind him. When we get to the door, he pulls out his phone and types in a code. The door whirs and clicks, and all three latches unlock simultaneously, even the highest one. I’m afraid to ask why he has one so high up.

“It’s so intruders on the other side don’t realize there’s another lock to break. Doors are at their weakest where the lock connects to the frame. It makes the door easier to kick in if the lock is only in the center, but when the dead bolt is also at the top, it’s much more difficult.”

“How did you know I was wondering that?”

Right now, his smirk is one of the only ways I can tell that he’s wearing a mask because while the left side lifts up, the right remains unnervingly still, frozen in a neutral state of bland disinterest.

“I watch people, Scarlett. It’s what I do. I deal in secrets and protection. Knowing what people are up to is my job.” He brushes his fingertips against my cheek and I barely resist the temptation to curl into his palm. “And you have a very expressive face, at least to me. If I didn’t know you better, I wouldn’t believe that you have even an ounce of darkness in you.” He bends low and brushes his lips against the shell of my ear. “But we both know better, don’t we, mon amour?”

My lips fall open, and my heart pounds with questions and the endearment. Before I can ask him how he knows my darkest secrets, he pushes me aside gently with his arm across my chest.

“Get behind me, Scarlett.”

I do as I’m told without thinking of defying him and as he opens the door and peers out, it takes me a second to realize I have no desire to even try to run away.

“Follow behind us,” he orders crisply.

I peer out from behind Sol’s waist and see a figure with flames on its face, emerging from the dark.

My heart races at the stranger’s arrival, not to mention how harsh Sol’s tone was. It makes me realize how gentle he’s been with me.

“Yes, Phantom,” a husky alto responds. The woman is tall, maybe six feet, although that’s got nothing on Sol. Her long, sleek black ponytail falls down her back and her mask of fire, intricately painted to shimmer and shine with reflective light, glows against the dim illumination from the corridor behind me.

“I remember you from last night. Um… thank you for, you know, helping,” I whisper dumbly. “I’m Scarlett.”

The mask only covers the top half of her face, revealing a twitch of a smile. “And I’m Sabine. But let’s keep that between us, shall we?”

“Come, Scarlett,” Sol commands in that tone I’m realizing he saves just for me.

He takes my hand and leads me out the door. Sabine closes it behind me and Sol presses a button on his phone screen to rotate the locks back in place. I follow him blindly through the dark tunnels while Sabine’s light steps pad behind me.

The stone passage is lit by industrial-style Edison bulbs, protected by metal caging, the same ones that line Sol’s hallway in his apartment. Rushing water resounds in the distance as we stick to the left side of the dim walkway.

“Is that a river? Underground?”

“We’re below sea level down here,” Sol explains. “My great-grandfather wanted dry pathways for his ventures during Prohibition, so he had an architect and city planner in his pocket who helped divert the runoff and flood waters into these underground channels that lead to the Mississippi River. The French Quarter is already slightly above sea level compared to the rest of New Orleans, and in the past, these channels have helped prevent disastrous flooding in the streets above us.”

“Whoa, what happens if I fall in? Will I get swept into the Mississippi?”

Sol tugs my hand against him, as if he’s afraid I could speak that accident into existence.

“Never get too close, pretty muse. I can’t lose you,” he mutters so low under his breath, I doubt Sabine heard him. “The channels reroute excess water to pipes that span like a labyrinth underneath the French Quarter and end at the mouth of the Mississippi. While there are sections of the maze where you must hold your breath, you could survive the thousand-foot distance as long as you move swiftly with the current and keep your head close to the oxygen at the pipe’s ceiling. But most people don’t know that.”

I snort. “Do a lot of people like to swim down here?”

His silence makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

“Some are given that choice, yes. Others choose to fight their way out.”

I gulp as I try to piece together what he’s saying. “So when people come down here they either swim… or fight. Who do they fight, and why?”

Minutes go by where I only hear the ominous rushing water a mere few feet away from me.

“They fight me, Scarlett. As for the why… let’s just say people don’t choose to come down here. But when they do, I’ve made sure they deserve it. That’s the Phantom’s—”

“—moral code,” I finish for him, remembering our conversation about justice earlier. “What’s, um, the success rate for choosing to swim?”

He pauses and I swear he’s literally trying to calculate the numbers before he finally answers.

“Low.”

“And what about the second choice?” The option where people fight for their lives. “What’s the success rate there?”

“None,” he answers quickly, not even needing to do the math. “So far, the latter option has a zero percent success rate.”

“And yet, the bastards keep choosing it,” Sabine sneers.

Damn… the Phantom of the French Quarter really is the Bordeaux family’s enforcer.

Questions bombard my mind, but I’m not sure I want to know the answers yet. He’s said before that whoever gets his brand of justice deserves it, but just how many people have deserved it over the years?

My chest aches, but my heart is a glutton for punishment when it comes to Sol because I don’t feel bad for the people who have lost their fight down here. For some reason, I trust the Phantom’s judgment in choosing a criminal’s fate. Especially, since he gives them a way to earn their freedom while still being guilty. No, I don’t feel bad for them.

I feel bad for him. My demon of music.

How many deaths can someone be responsible for in their lifetime before their soul is black as night? Is there any coming back from that?

We continue down the walkway, and I try my best not to observe everything with my head on a swivel. But I can’t help my curiosity, even in the dark, so when we finally stop in front of a wrought iron spiral staircase I nearly crash into Sol.

“Careful, little muse,” he murmurs warmly before climbing the steps, still holding my hand.

“Where does this go?”

“All the way up to the roof, but we won’t need to go that far.”

He settles on the first landing outside another steel door, and keeps my hand in his as he presses another button on his phone screen. Once it’s unlocked, he opens it, and Sabine and I fall back in step behind him.

The cool, damp stone smell is immediately replaced by that of wood and varnish. The darkness still prevails as I try to see in the small corridor.

“Where are we?”

“We’re inside the walls of the opera house. These hidden paths were how patrons and liquor traveled in secret from the house to Madam G’s speakeasy. Of course, it was her grandmother’s then.”

“Madam G’s family has owned Masque this entire time?”

My conversation with Rand feels like a lifetime ago, even though it was literally just yesterday. He’d said the Bordeauxs are extorting Madam G, but with everything I know about the Phantom of the French Quarter so far, I’m not sure I believe that anymore.

“Yes, Madam G’s family, the Gastoneauxs—formerly the Laveaus—and the Bordeauxs have a long, beneficial history together. My great-grandfather rebuilt the burned-down French Opera House for his wife. Madam G’s grandmother wanted a safe place for trusted family and friends to gather without scrutiny. Building the hidden speakeasy at the same time as the New French Opera House was the perfect answer.”

“If Madam G’s family owns it, why do they have to pay you rent and protection money?”

Sol snorts and narrows his eyes at me before taking a left turn. With each passing step, the cacophony of sounds from Bourbon Street filters in louder and louder through the walls, but I hear Sol over it all.

“You think anyone can tell Madam G what to do? Her family has been running this town before mine even stepped foot on its soil. We’ve always worked together. And why would she ever pay rent on what she rightfully owns? Who told you that?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to out Rand, but there’s obviously bad blood between the two of them. Getting in the way of either is the last place I want to be, even though it seems I’ve somehow already landed smack dab in the middle of their feud.

I let several steps pass by before giving the most noncommittal, true answer I can think of. “You know… just heard it around town.”

Sol grunts. “Well you’ve been misinformed. Always verify your sources, Scarlett. My brother and I provide legal, financial, and physical protection to those who are loyal to us. There are always factions in the city trying to rise up and harass business owners out of the French Quarter. Some will do anything to steal the success this city can provide. Ever since Hurricane Katrina, we’ve grown and we’re thriving again. Some people want to take it all for themselves, and some simply don’t want us to flourish at all.

“But beyond all that, Madam G is family. Her daughter, Maggie, is my sister-in-law and her granddaughter, Marie, is my niece. Ben and I would run security for Madam G for free, but her family line has always been proud and powerful. She’s no different and she refuses the ‘family discount,’ as she puts it, so Ben and I just put all the money she gives us in a trust for Marie when she turns twenty-five.”

“Oh…” That’s all I can come up with after Sol thoroughly demolishes Rand’s accusations.

Sol doesn’t seem to notice my silence as his phone lights up again. He pushes through a door that I hadn’t even realized was right in front of us.

“Wait here,” he whispers before slipping inside.

“They’re different than the rumors, you know.”

“Ah! Jesus.” My hand flies to my chest at the sound of Sabine’s voice behind me. “Scared me to death.”

“I get that a lot. But seriously, don’t believe everything you hear. The Bordeauxs are honest to a fault, so whatever you do hear, be sure to ask one of them first. I know I wish I had.” She mutters the last part, but I still manage to hear.

Sol reappears and grips my hand again. “Coast is clear.”

He leads me out of the dark corridor into a garage. A shiny, black Aston Martin is parked inside, and he rounds the trunk to open the passenger-side door for me.

“Get in, please, little muse.”

Something about the word please coming from this huge enforcer’s lips nearly makes me laugh, but I bite it back and slide into the car, waving goodbye to Sabine as I do.

Before he closes my door, I hear him call out to her. “We will be back shortly.”

He closes the door before I hear her respond and then the next moment he settles into the driver seat and presses the lift on the garage door remote, revealing the intersection of Toulouse and Bourbon on the other side.

It’s been a year since I let loose and partied on Bourbon Street. Now Jaime has to practically force me to leave my dorm. I can’t remember the last time I ventured into the chaos. Nausea churns my stomach at the thought of braving it again, but the feeling dissipates as Sol steers away from the parade of people in the road.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, he squeezes my hand.

“I’m sorry, little muse. But the good thing is you were diagnosed and you’ve been working hard on your treatment. It’s paid off. You’re getting stronger every day. Trust me.”

His words warm my chest until a parked cop car’s blue light shines in the rearview mirror. That, plus his words, flood my thoughts like a deluge, filling in the gaps of one of the many holes in my memory that I haven’t been able to access since that night.

Until now.

A dark-haired stranger with a mesmerizing gaze calls to me from outside the police SUV.

“I’m sorry, little muse.”

I blink back into the present and snatch my hand away from his.

“Wait a second… were you… were you there that night?”

The fact that I can’t see the expressive side of his face right now is frustrating as hell, but his tense posture tells me what I need to know.

“Scarlett, I can explain—”

“Oh my god, you were! But that was only a week after I moved into the dorm. I hadn’t even heard you play yet. It was still jazz music and mania back then. Why were you there?”

He swallows before taking a right. “I’m the Phantom of the French Quarter. It was brought to my attention that you were sick—”

“By who?”

He shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. My men are everywhere and one of them was concerned enough to involve me. I did my best to get you out of there before you got in trouble… but I failed.”

Those last three words fall between us like a boulder, crushing my chest.

“So, one of your men called and you tried to save me? From myself?” I swallow to get past the lump in my throat. “That’s… that’s it?”

He pauses to merge onto Basin Street before he answers. “That’s it.”

“Oh…” I sag into the seat. “You’ve been trying to help me this whole time?”

“I failed you once, Scarlett. I refuse to fail you again. You just have to trust me.”

I nod slowly and my nose scrunches while I try to organize all this information in my mind. While I’m thinking, I stare out at the shops and restaurants whizzing past my window, one by one, until I finally make my decision.

Sol’s methods may be completely unorthodox—a.k.a. illegal—but everything he’s done has been in my best interest. When he speaks, my heart and body trust him completely, sometimes obeying commands before I even register what he’s said. It’s just my mind that’s hanging on to those last threads of doubt. It’s time I trust him there, too.

“Okay…” I exhale out all my tired objections, ready to turn over a new leaf. “Where are we going?”

He shifts slightly and I can see the lopsided grin lift the left side of his face. “Treme. I have some business to take care of—”

Business? Like what? And with who—

No. Nope. No more questions. Just trust the man for once.

“Sounds… good.” And with that, I finally give in.

As if to punctuate the end of our conversation, Sol activates the Bluetooth speaker and a beautiful piano piece by Ludovico Einaudi filters through the speakers.

“I love Primavera! It’s one of my favorites—” I stop midsentence when I see his right ear lift, as if that side of his face is trying to smile, too. “Let me guess. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Guilty.”

A chuckle escapes me. “Is there anything you don’t know about me?”

“Not for long, if I can help it.”

I laugh outright at his honesty and sit back to hum the music. We take a few turns into the Treme neighborhood, and somehow Sol patiently resists ramming the drunken revelers that permeate New Orleans this time of night.

After a few more songs, we both get lost in humming a rendition of “The Flower Duet” from the opera Lakmé. I’ve used it as an audition piece before, so the words come easily to me, but when Sol replaces the low harmony in his deep voice, our own duet gives me goose bumps and my stomach flips with excitement over our sound. When the song finishes, we let the next begin, but we’re too busy grinning like fools to sing.

“So tell me, my demon of music. Where the hell did you learn to sing like that? Did you go to Bordeaux Conservatory too? Or does talent just run in the family?”

He huffs a laugh. “It definitely does not run in the family. My father couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, and my brother’s even worse. My mother loved to sing, and I wanted to please her, so I learned music at the French boarding school Ben and I attended.”

“Seriously? Rand went to boarding school in France. Was it the same one?”

Sol sucks his teeth and I immediately regret the question. The anger that rolls off him makes me shudder, but when he answers me, his voice is just as soothing as ever. Not a trace of that underlying rage is aimed at me.

“Yes, we went to the same boarding school. Rand’s attendance was meant to be an olive branch between his family and mine. Our families were competitors during Prohibition and thanks to some shady business dealings on both sides, the Bordeauxs and Chatelains have been rivals ever since. My mother wanted things to be different with us, and my father could never say no to her, so they struck a deal with the Chatelains. They forced us to go to school together, away from their feud, so that our generation would be the first without conflict.”

“But that didn’t happen,” I hedge.

“We have a truce.” He squeezes my hand before resting our clasped fingers where my dress’s slit reveals my thigh. “But that’s not your concern. Not tonight, at least.”

A truce… I like the sound of that. Could that mean their hatred for each other can be set aside? I’ll have to wait and save those questions for another night.

“Okay… so tell me about boarding school. What was it like?”

“Ahh, boarding school, where rich kids learn how to work hard and play harder. When I wasn’t being a hellion, I studied music and martial arts. Also fencing, but that was just so I could beat my brother. He never trained as much as I did. Still doesn’t. But Ben was an overachiever everywhere else. My passion was to make music and travel the world. Ben wanted to save it. When we quit boarding school at fifteen, we turned to private homeschooling. After that, Ben went to LSU and Loyola College of Law. I took up the security side of our family business and I compose music whenever I can, jazz and blues mostly.”

“Ugh, I wish I’d studied jazz. That’s my dream. Jazz and music composition. I’ve always wanted to go solo, but I… I haven’t yet,” I finish simply, not wanting to go into all my inner doubts right now.

“You would be amazing at it,” Sol answers. “Your vocals are a dream for opera, but with your voice and your knack for writing lyrics… Scarlett Day, you were made for your own spotlight.”

My cheeks heat. “My dad always talked about how hard it was—”

Sol snorts. “He’s right. It is hard. But you work hard at what you love. That combination will make the difficult things worth it when you achieve your dream.”

His words sink in as he keeps driving, and our conversation settles into a comfortable silence with the music playing in the background until the car slows.

He pulls into a parallel parking spot on a street with a mix of shops and cozy shotgun houses.

“We’re here.”

He’s already out of the car and rounding the hood to open my door before I can ask where “here” is. He helps me step up onto the sidewalk and rests his large hand on the small of my back, sending tingling warmth up my spine.

“Hopefully this will answer some of your many questions.”

Finally.

He leads me to a small shop with a cute sign hanging over the door. Saint’s Petals is written in cursive in the center of a pink hyacinth. Sol opens the door for me, letting me enter first, and I inhale deeply as the earthy scent of fresh-cut flowers fills my nose. Sol wraps his arm around my waist and ushers me in. A bell rings to signal our arrival and he promptly lets go before taking a step away from me. The air inside feels chilly without his warm touch.

“I’m coming, hold your horses.” A woman with a thick New Orleans accent warns us from the back of the shop. Only a second passes until a rotund, elderly woman with sun-weathered skin appears, smiling at us before putting on her glasses. When she does, she claps.

“Oh, well don’t you two look prettier than a picture? Mr. Bordeaux, I was wondering when we would get a visit again. I’ve just been sending those roses through errand boys, but I know they’ve appreciated the tips.”

“She loves them, Miss Mabel. I’d like to get her another dozen today.”

‘She’ can speak for herself, I think. But I watch in silence, trying to figure out where this piece of Sol’s life fits in the puzzle I’ve been putting together.

The woman’s rheumy eyes crinkle as her smile grows wider. “Well isn’t she a lucky lady? Consider it done. I know my Simon will be disappointed he missed you, but he had treatment today so he’s feeling under the weather.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

She fiddles with her sugar skull necklace as she shakes her head. “Oh no, it’s just treatments and time right now. Thank you though, sweetheart, you’ve always been such a thoughtful boy. You take after your momma that way.”

Sol smiles again. “Hey, don’t tell anyone, though. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Oh, no need to worry about that. Your secrets are always safe with me. But tell me, who’s your friend, honey?”

I hold my hand out to shake hers and open my mouth to answer but Sol interrupts me.

“This is Maggie’s friend, Miss Mabel. I thought I’d show her the shop where the Bordeauxs get all their flowers, but if you don’t mind, we’re on a tight schedule. I’d hate to keep you open past closing. Is everything ready for tonight?”

Maggie’s friend? I press my hand to the sudden ache in my chest.

“Sure is. All delivered and set up.”

She begins to chatter Sol’s ear off as she prepares a bouquet of white roses in a vase, going on about anything, everything, and nothing in between. The woman has to be the Jaime equivalent of Treme’s neighborhood gossip. To Sol’s credit, he listens, asks questions, and seems genuinely interested. When she’s finished, Sol hands her his black card and she turns around to ring him up.

“I’ve got your regular Sunday bouquet of burgundy snapdragons just about ready for delivery bright and early in the morning, too. People don’t buy fresh flowers like they used to. I’m hoping once the economy picks up that more husbands will treat their wives like you do, Mr. Bordeaux.”

His wife?! He’s been talking about sending flowers to his wife?

Jealousy pricks my heart, but when I try to step even farther away from him, he reaches out and tugs on the ribbon straps of my dress, effectively keeping me in place unless I want to unravel.

“Things will look up soon enough, Miss Mabel. Have a good night and make sure those bouquets keep arriving to the house. I know my wife, Maggie, loves them,” he says with a pointed look to me.

He must want her to think he’s Ben! But why? Her glasses’ lenses are thick, and at this distance with his mask, Sol looks just like his brother. But why would he need to walk around town looking like Ben?

I immediately feel a weird mixture of relief and embarrassment that I was jealous of Ben’s wife and the Bordeaux men’s affection for her. First of all, I adore Maggie. After the shit Monty’s put her through this year, she deserves a daily flower delivery. Second, I have absolutely zero claim over this man walking me out of this gorgeous flower shop. The fact that I care at all has me confused as hell.

Sol lets go of me to grab the flower vase before telling Miss Mabel good night. After we walk out, he moves to open my door and helps me slide inside, placing the vase on the floorboard safely between my legs so it doesn’t spill. When he closes my door I hear a low whistle outside.

Sol straightens and presses his key fob. The doors lock with a chirp and he walks briskly toward an empty space between two shotgun houses. His head is on a swivel, taking in his surroundings, and his hand hovers over a bulge on his right side.

Is that a gun?

My heart rate picks up and my breathing comes in pants as I try to remember any and every rumor I’ve ever heard regarding the Phantom of the French Quarter.

He glides to the house and stops feet from it. I maneuver in my seat to try to glimpse around a tree in my way, but I can only make out a short, skinny man in a hood. When he turns his head, his face reflects off of the lamp light and I gasp.

Ben?

But, no… it can’t be. Is it a mask? Do other people have the same mask Sol has? Is this one of his shadows dressing up like him?

I try my hardest to hear, but of course, I can’t make out a thing when they’re twenty feet away. Sol nods at whatever the guy is saying and digs in his pocket before handing the guy a wad of cash. The Bordeaux look-alike takes it and counts it as he runs off toward Saint’s Petals.

What the hell is going on?

Once the other man is gone, Sol glances around before striding back to the car.

Shit, I have twenty feet to decide how to play this. Do I ask questions? Do I want to know the answers? What will he do once I know them?

I’ve had a macabre sense of justice for as long as I can remember. My dad wasn’t always on the right side of the law, and the police never did us any favors. When my father was murdered, I hadn’t been able to tell the cops the whole story, but they’d known enough to try to replace the murderer. And yet, the case is still unsolved after a whole year.

But my instincts tell me I can trust the man who saved my life rather than turn me over to a psych ward. I can trust the man who protects his city, buys women flowers, and genuinely wants to know how well an elderly couple is doing.

When he hops into the car, I only have one question.

“Why did you let her think you were Ben?”

He starts the engine and the glow of lights in the car lets me catch a glimpse of a smile reflecting off of his tinted window. “Have you ever seen a phantom?”

“No,” I reply slowly.

“Neither has Miss Mabel.” He lifts his face and that smirk kicks up his lips. “And yet, somehow the Phantom of the French Quarter knows everything there is to know about Treme.”

I nod before it finally clicks. “So if you’re Ben in public, then you can keep a beat on the city, but the Phantom of the French Quarter can stay just that. A phantom. One that runs on rumors and the smoke and mirrors act. And since you rarely go out, it would be news around town if you did, so you like to stay in the shadows.”

“Exactly.”

I smile, feeling like I’ve finally figured this man out, at least a little bit. “So where to next? I can’t be this dressed up with nowhere to go.”

His shoulders relax, as if he’s grateful not to answer more questions right now. He pulls out of the parking space and flashes me another sexy, lopsided smile.

“Masque.”