Page 29 of The Fourth Option
Alone, Walker let his gaze travel. The fireplace was framed in white-painted brick, matching the home’s exterior. A mahogany mantel jutted above it, bearing a single silver-framed photo. Walker rose and approached it. His fingers hesitated near the edge of the frame, almost touching the chilled metal. John, Connor, and Leigh Ann stood on the back deck of a boat at sunset, grins caught mid-laugh. John looked exactly as Walker remembered, weathered and steady. Connor must’ve been twelve. Timehad turned the image into a relic. He leaned in closer, comparing the Leigh Ann of the photo to the one who had met him at the door. Now closing in on fifty, she still maintained her strawberry-blond hair of a decade prior, though it was now cut a few inches shorter. It took him a second to recognize what was missing: the twinkle in her eyes, the life, the vitality. That spark was gone. The natural smile in the photo had been replaced by one that was different, obligatory.
He turned from the photo and looked past the dining table, through a set of French doors onto a shaded patio and into the garden beyond.
Leigh Ann returned, glass of water in one hand. Ice clinked gently. She passed the water to Walker, who nodded in thanks.
“I set a bowl out for Paladin,” she said.
With a quick command he sent Paladin padding toward the kitchen.
Leigh Ann sank into the leather sofa with a soft sigh. Walker did the same. The fabric of her scrubs bunched around her knees as she curled one leg beneath her. In her hand, she cradled a glass of white wine. “I know,” she said after a sip. “It’s early. But it’s been a day.”
“I’d imagine you have a lot of those in the ER. Days, I mean. Not wine.”
“You’d be right on both counts.” She smiled. “I’ve got a good crew, though, and I’m not usually wrist-deep in blood anymore. Management’s its own kind of headache.” Her hand reached up and undid the hair tie holding her ponytail, allowing her hair to fall to her shoulders. Walker noticed the Tudor Sub on her wrist. John’s watch.
Walker nodded. “Management is overrated, isn’t it?”
“Lord, yes.”
“You sorry you went into it? Would you rather be walking the hospital floor? Like the Dam Neck days, over at the Portsmouth Naval Hospital?”
She looked toward the far wall, exhaling through her nose. “Tulane Med Center is a well-funded hospital, so we’re staffed. I’m the charge nurse in the ER. Questions from interns and residents keep me young, sort of.” She forced a smile. “This job allowed us a better life, which matters now. Or, it did.”
“Looks like you found the right spot.”
Paladin returned from the water bowl in the kitchen and sat by Walker, who reached down to scratch him behind the ears.
“Ah yes, the Garden District.” She pronounced it with a genteel drawl,Gahden.“I remodeled this place after John died. I think I needed a project. I ended up doing all the things John always promised he would, ‘just after one more deployment.’?”
“I like the old homes,” Walker said, bringing the conversation away from his intruding memories of John dying in agony. “So much history.”
She smiled and tilted her head. “John always said you were into that. I saw your van out there. Looks like it’s seen some miles.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his neck and looked down. “My fatal flaw. I’ve always been an analog guy. It took me twice as long to get here as I would have preferred.”
The words were barely out before he regretted them—fatal flaw. He’d nearly died in that van only a week ago. To cover, he pivoted. “How long have you been here?”
She took another sip and rested her glass against her thigh. “We moved in when John was with the Agency.” She paused before continuing. “Everything in New Orleans bends around the river. That’s where the name comes from, the Crescent City. Because of the way the Mississippi curves. Once you know that, you start noticing crescents everywhere. We wanted this neighborhood for Connor.”
She paused. Her posture crumpled slightly. “Ah, Jesus,” she said, voice raw. “Sometimes it catches me off guard. Seeing you. I thought I was grieving Connor. But maybe, maybe it’s John too.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said gently. “Leigh Ann, what can I do?”
She studied him through glossy eyes, fighting through the emotions.
“We can’t make small talk forever. There’s something I want to show you. My office is up front.”
Walker followed her down the hallway, Paladin at his side.
The office echoed the rest of the house in tone and restraint, classic colonial lines with a touch of elegance. Narrow windows stretched from floor to ceiling, admitting pale daylight that filtered through porch columns and landed in slants across the polished dark wood floor. White shelves lined the walls with carefully spaced books and framed photos, while an ornate French-style desk sat squarely at the center facing the street. Leigh Ann gestured for Walker to take the guest chair as she sat behind her desk and unlocked her Mac with a press of her index finger.
Paladin curled into a watchful arc near the door, resting his head atop crossed paws, eyes tracking his master’s every shift.
“Connor’s journals,” Leigh Ann said. She had regained her composure between the living room and her office.
She opened a desk drawer and drew out a large, black Moleskine notebook. It was battered, its spine softened, the corners rounded. The second was cleaner, less seasoned, though still worn.
“I’ve scanned everything for digital copies,” she continued, sliding the notebooks across the desk’s glossy surface, “but these are his raw notes. I prepared a USB drive for you with the digital version.”
