Colleen Thompson: Phantom of the French Quarter

“No.” She slipped around him to clamber out of the bed. “No, I can’t. This isn’t me, for one thing. And Reuben’s waiting, worried. I have to go. I have to.”

With each word, she backed farther out of his reach.

“Caitlyn, it’s all right,” he said, though his body grieved her loss already. “There’s no need to be upset.”

Beyond listening, she turned from him, scrambling to unfasten the door’s cheap chain and deadbolt.

“Don’t go,” he said. “I’ll call a cab, like you told Reuben, and then I’ll see you to it. You have a head injury, and this neighborhood’s not safe for—”

But it was too late. Door swinging wide, Caitlyn blazed straight through it, not hesitating for an instant before she raced out into the sultry Crescent City night.

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