Page 67 of Stalked By Shadows
“I’m homicide, not missing persons. The dead guy is my jurisdiction.”
“Is that why nothing gets done anymore with you cops? Right hand not talking to the left?”
“I’d bitch at you if you weren’t so damn right.” Lukas pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out a stack of cash. “Shopping, yeah? Don’t buy clothes you think I’d like, buy stuff for you. You still have the credit card I gave you? Use that too.”
“What if I want ballgowns and wizard cloaks?”
He shrugged. “Okay, if it makes you happy.” He glanced at the clock. “Gotta go. Don’t find any dead people today.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Shop,” he said as he waved the money at me.
I sighed, taking the offered cash and watching him leave. Shop. Normally I hated shopping, but it had been fun yesterday, though I hadn’t been looking for clothes for myself. I unlocked my phone and stared at the blank text window for a minute or two before sending Micah:I hope you’re okay.
A minute passed with nothing. Maybe he was still asleep.
I’m supposed to buy clothes, or so Lukas has ordered. Where should I go?
I got up and made my way to the shower to wash away the sweat and the dream. I’d almost forgotten what the nightmares felt like, but waking from it reminded me of that overwhelming weight in my limbs, the drowning pool of depression, and the mental exhaustion. I felt like I hadn’t really slept at all. A few days with Micah and I’d almost felt normal. It was a little scary to get a glimpse because what if Micah didn’t want me around anymore?
By the time I exited the shower and dug through Lukas’s clothes to find something that didn’t make me look like an emaciated hobo, there were a handful of texts lighting up my phone.
Lots of shops off Decatur. Great thrift shop near Ursulines and Royal. Not far from LaLaurie Mansion. Tiny but good selection.
You okay?
Yes. Sewing and thinking.
I wasn’t sure that was okay, but since he didn’t seem to be inviting himself along or asking for my presence, I decided he probably still needed some space. That was okay. Apparently I needed clothes.
On the way to the thrift store I found a barber shop who was willing to turn me into something presentable. The barber cleaned up the beard, trimming it down and softening it, and took enough off my hair to make me look somewhat distinguished. The older black man gave me a long lecture on hair care, and a handful of products to help me keep the ‘fro tamed during the humid New Orleans days. I thanked him profusely and took a selfie in the barber mirror, forwarding it to both Lukas and Micah, then headed for the clothing shop.
I’m glad you didn’t cut it short.Micah wrote back.Or shave off the beard.
It’s super soft,I sent him, stroking my beard and marveling at the texture of it. Who knew there was stuff that could make your hair as soft as satin? Having the beard trimmed this short it always felt prickly to me, only now it didn’t. I had purchased a half-dozen products from the barber after he’d used them on me. Having never been all that into ‘self-care’ in general it would be work to create a new habit, but since it made me feel good, I’d try.
There were a dozen small boutique style shops in the area selling T-shirts and tourist gear, and I recognized the shop Micah had mentioned immediately. It was a mash of crowded racks, heaped with well-loved clothes, while still being very organized.
A plaque beside the entrance told a story about a lover’s quarrel which had ended in tragedy, leaving the disgruntled couple to forever haunt the shop. The story was pretty recent, from the late seventies. I laughed at the silliness of it, a haunted clothing store. If there was something I would do in my afterlife, it would not be hanging around a thrift store. I took a picture of the plaque and sent it to Micah.
Never felt anything there.Micah replied.But know the story. Murder-suicide. Sad.
“Can I help you?” A young woman asked me. She must have been an employee, though didn’t have a nametag. Her clothes were kind of thrifty cool, dated, like she’d picked the best stuff from the seventies and eighties and meshed them into a neat outfit. Her dark hair was long and flowing, pushed back by one of those cloth headbands.
“I need some clothes that fit,” I told her and tugged on the shorts I was wearing, which were held up by a belt that really didn’t go with the shorts.
She gave me a warm smile that eased some of my anxiety over shopping for clothes. “Sure. Follow me.”
She led me to a section in the back of the store where there was a little changing booth and several crammed-full racks. One whole rack appeared to be jeans, pants, and shorts for men. I went to the size I knew Lukas wore and down one.
“Feel free to use the changing room to try stuff on,” the woman told me.
“Thank you,” I said, watching her weave her way through the racks. The store seemed otherwise empty, and bigger inside than I’d thought from seeing the outside, though not larger than Simply Crafty.
I pulled a handful of things off the rack and headed to the changing room, finding quickly enough that I was not one size, but two sizes smaller than Lukas. Jeans felt odd. Very restrictive. Had it been so long since I wore them? I liked the shorts better, and a handful of cargo pants in cream, green, and khaki, with giant pockets and wide legs. I took a picture in one of the pairs and sent it to Micah.
These hide my chicken legs well, but fit through the waist and ass. What do you think?