Oliver dragged his feet as he went to the back room. Six forty-five p.m. Briony would be there any minute to pick up the package. He shouldered the curtain aside near the register of the shop, vaguely aware of his dad trying to sell a customer on a refurbished coffee table. Ugh. Coffee. He could use a gallon right about then.

He hadn’t slept. Not at all. When he’d closed his eyes he’d heard Micah’s trowel hitting the coffin lid. He’d heard the fingers separating from the hand, so much severed meat. He’d heard that man shouting and the rattle of the iron fence. He’d seen the shadow watching them, right by the grave. Too close to the grave.

Sirens sounded all the time during the night in the city, but each siren that blared last night he’d been certain was coming for him.

Stifling a yawn, Oliver caught a glimpse of himself in an antique mirror in the supply room. Yikes. He looked dire. Scruffy was usually a good word to describe him, but this was something else. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. His hair stuck up, unwashed and oily, greased from the night spent roasting in his hoodie and sprinting for safety. He had stuffed his messenger bag next to a cabinet, hyperaware of what was inside of it.

Micah was teaching martial arts until close, leaving Oliver to do the hand-off. The first time around had been so much easier. Micah had deciphered the coded ad for fences on Craigslist and then they’d gone to the designated drop-off area to pick up an assignment in an old mailbox. That time they’d just had to pick up some watches, a pair of spectacles, and some other old junk that nobody would miss. Then they’d done the delivery in the same anonymous way.

The next time they answered an ad, Briony was there to meet them and showed them to what she called “an office,” which turned out to be little more than an old garage in Bywater. Oliver had gotten the feeling that Briony certainly didn’t live there and maybe didn’t even spend much of her time in the dingy hovel. It gave him a distinct serial killer vibe, but a dozen or so people were there, busily working away at cramped desks. Oliver couldn’t get close enough to see just what they were doing. At any rate, Briony had announced she was pleased with their work, and thought they might be good for something a bit more challenging.

Challenging enough to be worth two grand.

Oliver knelt and grabbed his bag, running his hand listlessly back and forth through his hair. It was over. They had done the work. He’d give the package to Briony and that, he decided, would be that. No more jobs. He didn’t care how good the money was, it wasn’t worth this stress.

It only remained to be seen if he could actually say all of that to Briony’s face.

The bag vibrated in his hands and he fished out his cell phone. His dad never liked him to have it in his pocket while “on the floor.” Two messages. One had come from Sabrina, another offer to celebrate his big news. The other was from Briony. He clutched the phone harder, a reflex.

Change of plans. Meet me by 8.

Directions followed. Oliver knew the place. It wasn’t far at all. An easy walk, in fact. He debated taking the car, but figured he’d be able to get in and out faster if he made up some excuse to Briony about needing to pop right back to work, that this was his break and he needed to finish his shift.

He shouldered the bag and ducked by the curtain again, stepping out into the showroom of the shop. His dad was still working an old lady by the postcards. A few Tulane kids had showed up to set up tables and chairs for a poetry reading they were having later. Oliver mumbled hello to everyone, waving bye to his dad.

“Just gone for a minute,” Oliver said, hoping it was true.

His father was almost a carbon copy of Oliver, longer in the face and with a few more wrinkles, but with the same shaggy dark hair and thick brows, same dark blue eyes and crooked smile.

“Where you headed?” Nick Berkley asked, jotting down a price offer for the customer on his little lined notepad.

“Just around the block. Didn’t sleep much, need a coffee.”

“We’ve got a pot in the back—”

“Real coffee.”

His father shot him a mock-scandalized look and tucked his pencil behind his ear. “All right. Get back soon, okay? I want to talk about that big news of yours.”

Oliver nodded, the door jangling shut behind him, the bells tacked to the frame announcing his exit. He wasn’t sure that his sleep-deprived brain was ready for that talk with his dad. It had been a mistake to mention that he had news at lunch, but his mind hadn’t been firing on all cylinders.

The city lamps had come on, washing the cobbled streets in pretty, welcoming light. Vintage light. It gave the sidewalks a surreal glow, something meant to give tourists that sense that they were stepping back in time, that none of this was real, that anything they said or did in their drunken journeys down Bourbon Street would be left behind in another world altogether.

No such luck, Oliver mused darkly. He’d be fortunate if he ever managed to scrub the night before from his mind. And even if he picked up and left for university, New Orleans would still be his home. That would never change. It had been a misstep to get wrapped up in this Part-Time Job with Micah.

For God’s sake, this was his city, his neighborhood, and now he was traipsing across it with a guilty hunch to his shoulders, human bones rattling around in his bag.

Just as he thought, the GPS brought him to Briony’s chosen spot after a ten-minute walk. A flashy, polished black luxury car was parked by itself on the block, the license plate reading PRNCPL1. A forest-green sticker with white type covered the bottom right of the bumper.

PROUD PARENT OF AN HONOR ROLL STUDENT

The rest of the street was mostly empty save for the odd lost, drunk tourist. By then the clammy evening humidity clung heavy to his shirt, and he plucked at it to keep it off his damp skin as he double-checked the address, loitering outside of a wooden door down a soggy, sour alley.

He began to grow nervous as the minutes crawled by. Did he knock? Did he text Briony? Then the hinges of the door squealed and a face appeared in the gloom beyond, the stark white face of a painted mask.