Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“You’re still holding back,” she said, not accusing, just certain.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to take the woman I a.m. enamored with to dinner. And I’d rather not bring damnation to the table.”
Delphine showed just a hint of a blush as she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Bastien reached out a hand to her.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “I owe you dinner.”
They ended up at a quiet courtyard restaurant off Royal Street. Ferns dangled from balconies above, and votives flickered on tabletops like fireflies held in place. The world felt distant here, as if the Quarter itself had decided to hold its breath.
The restaurant was called Tableau—upscale enough to feel special without being pretentious, tucked into a courtyard that caught whatever breeze the evening offered. String lights overhead competed with actual stars becoming visible in the darkening sky. The menu was French-Creole fusion, the kind of place that honored both traditions without bastardizing either.
Delphine sat across from him, wine glass in hand, curls pulled back, skin gold in the low light. Bastien didn’t let himself stare—but he wanted to.
He’d watched her live entire lives. Seen her grow old, fade, die. Sometimes peacefully. Sometimes not. But always, always, he’d felt the absence like a splinter in his ribs. And this version of her, Delphine, felt the furthest away and the closest all at once. She didn’t remember him. But he remembered everything.
A waiter appeared—young, efficient, perfectly trained in the art of being present without being intrusive. They ordered: shrimp and grits for her, blackened redfish for him, a bottle of white wine that the waiter promised was “crisp without being aggressive.”
When he disappeared, Delphine leaned back in her chair, studying Bastien with open curiosity.
“So,” she said. “Mystery man. What did you really do before you opened a detective agency?”
He smirked. “Consulted. Traveled. Fell from Heaven. The usual.”
She laughed, reaching for the bread basket. “So dramatic.”
“You have no idea.”
He meant it. Every word.
The wine arrived. They toasted—to research, Delphine suggested with mock solemnity. To mysteries and their solutions. The wine was good, better than good. Crisp and bright with just enough body to stand up to the butter and spice they were about to consume.
Dinner came and the scent of butter and thyme wound between them, grounding and human. Bastien closed his eyes for a second. Let himself feel it. Not the ache. Not the weight. Just the moment.
“You look tired,” Delphine said.
“I am.”
“Because of the case?”
“Because of what comes next.”
She was quiet, then said, “You don’t have to do this alone.”
He looked at her, really looked. “I’ve done it alone for longer than you know.”
Delphine’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t ask. Instead, she shifted the conversation, telling him about a college professor who thought ghosts were electromagnetic fields, spirits were just residual energy trapped in walls, consciousness nothing more than electrical patterns that dissipated at death.
“He was very proud of his rational explanations,” she said, forking up grits thick with cream and cheese. “Very convinced that everything supernatural had a scientific explanation. I asked him if he’d ever actually seen a ghost.”
“And?”
“He said no. That absence of evidence wasn’t evidence of absence. That the scientific method required we not assume phenomena existed until proven.” She smiled. “I told him that sounded like a very comfortable position for someone who’d never had their worldview challenged by direct experience.”
Bastien laughed, low and genuine. “What did he say to that?”
“Nothing. He just looked uncomfortable and changed the subject.” She took a sip of wine. “People don’t like having their certainties questioned. Even academics who claim to value inquiry above belief.”
“Especially academics who claim to value inquiry above belief.”
“Exactly.” Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight. “They’ve built their entire identity around rationality. Admitting that reality might be stranger than their models allow—that’s not just intellectual revision. It’s existential threat.”
He wanted to tell her that reality was stranger than any model could contain. That consciousness transcended death, that love bound souls across centuries, that the woman sitting across from him had loved him in forms she couldn’t remember and would love him again if given the chance.
But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when she was finally relaxed, laughing, treating him like a man instead of a mystery.
At one point, she reached across the table, brushing a crumb from his sleeve.
A moment. Nothing more. But it lit him up from the inside.
He remembered the night Delia first told him she loved him—in a storm, soaked to the bone, kissing him like it was the only language she spoke. And the night Charlotte had stitched his wounds in silence, her hands trembling, love unspoken but known.
He wanted to reach across the table. He longed to say the words. You loved me first. You always did. But it wasn’t time.
So he just said, “Thank you.”