But when I’d gotten dressed, I’d realized I wasn’t in the mood.

I’d crumpled up the list, tossed it in the trash, and grabbed my little bag, which now hung at my hip with the strap across my chest, and walked out of the house.

I took a streetcar to Canal and hopped off, disappearing into the Quarter.

Around the corner from St. Louis Cathedral, with its madness of artists, musicians, and palm readers, I traipsed a block or two to Maskarade, a little shop I’d discovered last Mardi Gras when I was searching for my first mask.

I wasn’t interested in the gaudy souvenirs sold in the French Market or tourist shops. I’d wanted handmade work by real mask makers, and I’d always intended to come back, perhaps to start building a collection for my wall.

When I stepped in, the rough wooden floors creaked under my sandals, and the woman behind the counter smiled at me before returning to her paperwork.

That was one thing I liked about New Orleans.

Merchants didn’t jump on you the second you walked into their establishments.

Masks covered all of the walls but were divided into categories. Leather to the left, then animal-inspired masks and feathered work to the right. Many of the masks were styled simply for male customers, while others were jeweled, glittered, and ornate for even the most audacious buyer.

“It’s almost Halloween,” I told her, looking around and seeing the place empty. “I thought you’d be busier.”

“It goes in spells,” she explained. “Mardi Gras is the really busy time.”

Yeah, I could imagine. I couldn’t believe it was only about four months until the next carnival season began.

Nearly a year since the first time I’d met Tyler.

And – I let my eyes drop for a moment as I walked around the shop – it had been more than a week since the last time I’d talked to him.

I’d seen him – once.

He’d picked up Christian last Monday from school, and even though I wasn’t sure, because I’d refused to look for him, he was most likely there every day this week to get his son.

I’d smiled at the parents, wished the students a good afternoon every day when they left, and returned to my classroom, closing my door and blaring Bob Marley as I worked late and didn’t think of him.

Or tried not to think of him.

But then I’d see the bra in my drawer that no longer had matching panties and remember that they were left in an alley in the Quarter. Or I’d wake up hot, the sheets chafing my naked skin, and let myself fall apart, wishing my hands were his.

He was right, though. What we were doing was careless and selfish.

I turned back to the clerk. “Where are your metal masks again?” I asked.

She pointed behind me. “Through there on the left wall.”

I saw the French doors in the middle of the room and gave her a small smile. “Thank you.”

Walking into the next room, I gazed at the walls, all adorned with masks, much like the first room, and went straight for the small selection of metal masks they carried. Some looked very much like the one I had purchased here last winter, but that was another perk of this place. No two masks were alike.

I picked up an ornate gold one, shining with crystals built into the center part that sat in the forehead. Along the sides, curling designs traveled up both temples, and exotic eyes gave it an erotic look, like a mixture of sex and mystery.

A smile I actually felt crept out for the first time in a week.

I loved the black one I’d worn all those months ago. I didn’t know where I would wear this one, but I was buying it.

I picked out a mask for my brother as well, since he had mentioned he had a Halloween ball to attend for his new internship at Greystone Bridgerton, letting her wrap both up and bag them before heading back up to Canal to catch a streetcar.

It was after three in the afternoon, and even though I hadn’t accomplished anything useful today, I’d promised Jack I’d make him dinner.

The only things he cooked were Hot Pockets and scrambled eggs.

Carrying my bag, I walked under the fragrant lilac tree in my quiet neighborhood and crossed the street to my apartment.

But as I jogged up the steps to the porch, I slowed, seeing my front door open.

What the…?

Fear attacked me, slicing across my chest like a giant claw, taking everything in its grasp, and I instantly backed up, stepping down the stairs.

But I locked the door.

I remembered locking it, because a neighbor had greeted me, and I’d turned around to say hello before clicking the lock and jiggling the door handle to make sure it was secure.

I shook my head. No. I am not going through this again.

I charged up to the door, pushing it open with my hand.

“Who’s here?” I shot out, trying to keep the shakiness from my voice.

Air rushed in and out of my lungs as I quickly scanned the room, looking for any movement. The interior was dark. I’d turned off all the lights before I’d left, but the day’s last light was coming through the windows.

“Who’s here?” I shouted again, dropping the bag to my feet. “Come out right now!” I dared.

The cabinets, the window, the shower curtain… They weren’t my imagination or lapses in concentration.

Someone had been coming into my house.

I forced down the lump in my throat and inched into the foyer, searching the area for anything out of place.

And then I widened my eyes, seeing the pile of wreckage in the center of the living room.